


The Tale of the Prince and His Bodyguard

by scheherazade



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-11-27
Updated: 2012-07-14
Packaged: 2017-10-30 18:08:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 49,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/334597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scheherazade/pseuds/scheherazade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a prophecy threatens a young prince's life, it's up to his loyal bodyguard to keep that fate from becoming reality.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Arabian Nights AU, loosely inspired by The Tale of the Third Kalendar and the Jeweler's Son. For the [Khedira/Ozil 1001 Nights AU prompt](http://footballkink.livejournal.com/1050.html?thread=616474#t616474) at fbkink.

  

_It is related—O happy King—that there was once, in the drifts of time long ago, a beautiful kingdom which lay beside the sea. It was ruled by a powerful king blessed with two sons, and of these two it is said that the younger was the most noble boy in all the land, as beautiful as he was wise and kind, and well-loved by all._

.

"So you're really going away then," Rani said, running his finger over the smooth canvas knapsack. Inside were all his older brother's worldly possessions; it didn't add up to much. He looked up at Sami. "Will you ever come back?"

Sami ruffled his brother's hair. "Sure I will. Whenever I can, I'll come back to see you and father."

Rani nodded. He rubbed his nose. "I'm still mad at you for entering the tournament," he announced. "Just so you know."

"Come on, now. I didn't get killed, did I?" Sami pointed out. Though, truthfully, it had been a near thing: that last fight against the eastern swordsman had taken a chunk out of his hair—and probably a dozen years off his father's life. "And I managed to impress the armsmaster, and now I'm going to train to become a guardsman. I'll be able to buy us a house right in town, Rani. Father will have a nice shop to sell his pottery, and you can marry a pretty merchant's daughter."

Rani made a face, and Sami laughed. Their father called from outside, calling that it was time to go. Sami grabbed his cloak. Rani handed him the knapsack. "Come back for my birthday, all right?" he said, holding onto Sami's hand for just a moment longer.

Sami hugged his brother. "Of course. Couldn't miss your eighth birthday. Be careful, Rani. Look after father and make sure he doesn't work too hard."

Rani's solemnly nodding face was the last thing Sami saw before he stepped outside into the mid-morning heat. His father was there waiting for him, a waterskin in one hand and a small silk pouch in the other. The pouch tinkled with the sound of coins when his father tucked it into Sami's knapsack.

"God keep you, my son," he said and bid Sami be on his way. It was a long walk to the king's palace. It would be nearly nightfall before Sami reached his destination: the barracks, where he would find the old armsmaster who had been so impressed by his talent—so much that he would take this young boy under his wing and train him to become one of the greatest swordsmen in the land, teach him in the ways of honor and loyalty, and make him a trusted guard worthy of a prince. 

.

_In the summer of the young prince's nineteenth year, the king began to draw battle plans for a great campaign to expand the riches of his kingdom. He called together the learned men of his court to draw their charts and observe the stars to see how these ambitions of conquest would unfold._

.

First days, Sami knew, never went well. His first day training with the old armsmaster, he'd gotten knocked down a couple dozen times and then told to trim his hair because it was interfering with his peripheral vision. His first day on duty, guarding a small door leading to the kitchens, he'd been roundly scolded by a cook for holding up a delivery boy who had come with fresh herbs from the market. His first day accompanying a royal entourage, First Prince Mutlu had assigned him to look after the pack animals, and the humiliation had burned for months.

This particular first day could have been much worse, considering that he'd been promoted to the position of personal bodyguard to the second prince—because said prince had dismissed his previous three bodyguards on account of them being too obtrusive, too dedicated to the idea of vigilance to give the prince the solitude and space he so loved.

So Sami wasn't entirely sure why _he_ 'd been chosen, this time. It was a tricky balancing act, to follow the prince as inconspicuously as possible, yet remaining close enough to protect him against any danger that should arise. Sami was confident in his own skills, but the tact and discretion required for this job made it more suited to someone with greater experience. Or maybe the captain of the guard thought someone closer in age to the prince would be a better fit. 

Or maybe it was because that, within the heavily guarded palace, this job was pretty much superfluous anyway.

And so Sami found himself trailing after the prince to the war council, standing well out of the way as the astrologers cast their predictions. There were guards by the door, with several more scattered about the room at regular intervals. The wise men drew their charts at a great table in the center of the hall while the captains of the guard stood beside the king. The atmosphere bristled with steel. The second prince stood beside his brother and father, and Sami listened to the goings-on with half an ear, keeping one eye on the prince at all times—on the bright thread of his dark-red tunic and the faint frown that marred his expression. 

Sami wondered why. The astrologers were all predicting favorable outlooks. Each spoke of the great riches that the kingdom stood to gain from this campaign, the glory that would be won. The king's face was stern as bedrock, as ever, but Sami thought he was pleased. And why not? Even the first prince was smiling at the astrologers' words. Only the second prince seemed unmoved.

Until old Adil stood before the king and spoke,

"A warning in the stars, my king. You risk war with prospects for great triumph, yes, but even greater tragedy. Forty days after you increase your arms for the kingdom's gain, you will find instead loss for yourself. Your son—" and the old man raised a trembling hand to point at the second prince, "—will surrender his life, taken by a close enemy, and it will be ransomed by neither gold nor steel. So it will be, my king, should you proceed with war."

The words had hardly registered in Sami's mind before the king was shouting for the guards to seize the astrologer. The old man cried out, but his voice was drowned out beneath the sound of the guards' tramping boots and the host of startled voices that sounded in confusion and fear.

"Take him outside the city walls!" rose the king's voice above the rest. "For these evil words, the highest treason, he is to be executed at sundown. Now get him him out of my sight."

The guards seized the astrologer. Silence fell. The man's grey beard was nearly long enough to trail on the floors as they hauled him outside like a sack of grain. Sami tried not to look at the old astrologer's face as they took him away. The door shut behind them.

It was the second prince who spoke first into the resulting silence. "Father," he began, "you cannot punish a man for reading what is written in the stars, and old Adil has served you well for all these years. I beg you reconsider your judgment."

"He has betrayed me." The king's brow was furrowed and dark. "My decision is final."

"Have pity," said the prince. "Would you leave his wife widowed and his daughters without a father to look after them?"

"You will not speak to me in this way, Mesut!" Every counselor and warrior left in the room averted their eyes from the king's anger. "They are no concern of mine, and should be none of yours."

"If reason won't persuade you, then I ask you find some compassion as a father yourself."

There was a moment of thunderous silence. "What compassion should I give to him who would have me grieve for you, as a father?" said the king, his voice softer but no less dangerous. He turned his back to the gathered counselors. "That is enough. Leave me."

Everyone welcomed the dismissal with relief—everyone but Prince Mesut, who stood his ground before the king for long moments. Prince Mutlu squeezed his brother's shoulder as he passed by, giving him a small shake of the head that indicated he should not press the issue. Finally, Mesut inclined his head—whether in defeat or in respect to the king, Sami couldn't tell—and turned to leave.

Sami shadowed him through the halls hung richly with silk, past vases filled with flowers and windows opening onto well-kept gardens full of light and air. The prince saw none of these, his eyes downcast, thoughtful. It wasn't until they reached the prince's quarters that he said,

"So, you're new."

Sami tried not to look too startled. He bowed his head. "I've been assigned to guard you, my prince."

"So I've been told," said Mesut. "What I meant was, what's your name?"

"Sami, my prince."

"That's a noble name." Mesut looked thoughtful again. Sami waited. Eventually the prince sighed. "Well, as much as I would appreciate the company, nothing is going to openly attack me within the palace, much less in my own quarters, so there's no reason for you to be here. Send for the evening watch, if you'd like. Tell them I won't be going out again until the morning. You can come back then."

The dismissal caught him off guard, but Sami bowed his head. "Very well, my prince."

"And you can stop it with the 'my prince' thing after every sentence."

"Yes—" _my prince_ , Sami almost said before he caught himself. He frowned. 

But Mesut smiled at him, a smile that reached his eyes and softened the stern set of his face. "Good," he said, and closed the door after himself. 

.

The next morning, the king summoned his allies to the palace. Tuncay was the first to step within the city walls, not long after high noon, and runners heralded Nuri's arrival shortly before sundown. Mesut passed the majority of the day talking with his brother, holed up in Mutlu's quarters, and Sami found himself once again left at the door.

He spent the time waiting, watching, thinking about the old astrologer's prophecy (careful not to think of old Adil or his newly bereft widow and daughters). Sami had never put much stock in charts and stars himself, but he wasn't stupid enough to dismiss them outright, knowing that fate did have an unfortunate habit of catching up with you. Sami wondered that Mesut seemed so calm about the whole situation; if the prophecy of his own death bothered him, the prince did a good job of not letting it show. 

In the evening the king held a feast for his gathered allies. The great hall was hung with lighted lamps and lit with scented candles; the cooked meats were fragrant with spices, the melons fresh and sweet; and over the silk spreads drifted the sound of woodwinds and strings. No expense was spared. Even the royal guards had traded their normal attire for something a bit more colorful, and Sami was secretly glad that Mesut had forced him to wear an embroidered vest over his usual dark shirt.

Now he stood a ways from where Mesut sat at his father's side, listening to the eddies of conversation and watching the servant girls make cow-eyes at Nuri as they brought him sherbet in delicate china cups. They might as well have tried to seduce a statue for all the attention the young chieftain paid them.

"You have set out the plans for war," one of the Altintop brothers was saying to the king. "We will certainly move ahead with this campaign, and we will certainly succeed."

"And as for this prophecy," said the other brother, "of course, it is possible the old man was only trying to trick you. But the stars move in strange ways. It is perhaps wiser to take some measures to ensure Mesut's safety."

"For example?" asked Mutlu, while Mesut frowned.

"You could send him away to a safe location," said—Hamit? Halil? Sami still couldn't tell them apart—and the other added, "Somewhere remote, where he can wait out the forty days that the astrologer predicted."

"I will not be banished for forty days away from my own home," Mesut said.

"The concern is that there is danger here, as the prophecy seemed to indicate an enemy close to home—perhaps one of the neighboring tribes that we are about to conquer. In that case, Prince Mesut, the logical solution is to move you to a safer location and wait until this danger is past."

"The forty days are counted from the day when we proceed with plans for war," Mutlu cut in, seeing Mesut's darkening expression. "So we have time."

"Then the forty days begin from here," said the king, who had remained silent before now. He waved aside the servant girl setting bowls of sweet cakes before him. "Tonight, we join our fortunes for this campaign."

"But father, I cannot—"

"We can talk about it later, Mesut." The king's tone was clipped; Mesut closed his mouth. "There are few months left before the winter winds set in," the king said next, looking to his allies. Halil and Hamit nodded; Nuri merely held the king's gaze. "We will act quickly, and decisively."

Mesut said nothing for the remainder of the evening. He left early, as poets were brought in to entertain the guests with verses; Sami followed. Sami followed him past the curved arches of doors and hollowed shapes of windows, past woven tapestries and silken hangings, the prince's stride hurried and tense as he tread the halls with staccato steps. Eventually they came to a small wooden door. Mesut threw it open and stepped out into the garden beyond.

The shadows beneath the fruit-bearing trees were blue and cold, and many-petaled flowers brushed against his legs as he stepped softly behind Mesut. The prince's unrelenting pace slowed, finally, coming to a pomegranate tree in the middle of the garden; it was a young tree, with branches slender like a girl's pale arms and bending under the weight of fruit. 

"Forty days," he hissed, and in the edge of Mesut's voice Sami could hear a thousand curses waiting to be hurled at whoever was responsible for his anger, "they can't possibly be serious. Forty days, stranded somewhere, banished like a common criminal—!"

Sami stood back, maintaining a respectful distance. The prince fell silent again after his sudden outburst. A crescent moon rode high in the sky.

"So," Mesut said eventually, "who did you offend to get stuck with this job, Sami?"

"My prince?"

"Following me around all day? Seems a pretty thankless job."

"I," said Sami, then paused. He tried again, "It's an honor to defend you, my prince."

"I thought I told you to stop it with the 'my prince' thing." Mesut touched a dark green leaf with careful hands, gazing up at the pomegranate tree. He murmured, "You can't cheat what's written. No one can be sure of his rewards in life, only the certainty of his death. And whether that's in forty years or forty days, it's the same."

"I think it's my job to make sure it's more the former than the latter."

"I know." Mesut smiled at him; in the darkness Sami couldn't read anything more in his expression. "But even you can't protect me from fate."

.

_Distraught by the old astrologer's predictions and determined not to lose his beloved son, the king had preparations made to send the prince away to a remote island, to keep him safely hidden from all danger until the forty days had passed. A ship was stocked with all manner of luxuries to make pleasant his long stay: fresh fruits and sweatmeats; vases for flowers and jars of scented oils; finely-woven rugs and drapes of silk, and lamps to lighten the darkness. The king sent a dozen royal guards to accompany the prince as well, and among these was the prince's loyal bodyguard. The second morning after the old astrologer drew his fatal charts, the ship thus loaded set out with a sure-handed navigator at the helm and a fair wind in her sails._

.

Mesut didn't speak a single word during the voyage, and not even after the ship had docked in the island's small curved bay. In the fading sunlight, the double-peaked island had the silhouette of lamb's cloven foot. Servants carried everything up to a natural clearing midway up the hill, where the marquees were raised and a guard set around the perimeter. 

Mesut stood by the shore, Sami by his side, watching the bustling activity of the porters as they went to and fro between ship and encampment under the guidance of flickering torchlight. 

Just that morning, Mesut had woken with the first glimmers of light, determined not to see his day end thus. He'd stepped into his antechamber while dawn still lay cold on the smooth-tiled floors and thoroughly startled Sami, who had not expected his prince to wake for some time yet. But he followed, shadow-like, as Mesut went to see his brother again. And though it was early, Mutlu met them at the entrance to his quarters, shaking his head and taking Mesut by the arm to usher him down the hall. Two of Prince Mutlu's personal guards fell into step beside Sami. 

"There's no time. You'll have to talk to father right now if you want any hope of changing his mind," said the first prince. "He was talking with Hamit and Halil well into the night, and you know how much he trusts their advice. Too much, in my opinion. But the servants have told me that the kitchen is in chaos with preparations—"

They were passing through a walkway lined with slender arches when it happened. A sudden noise to their left. The walkway was open on both sides to a thickly grown garden, and Prince Mutlu's men immediately drew their weapons, placed themselves between the princes and the disturbance. 

But a flash of movement from the right hand side warned Sami of the real danger. 

He didn't stop to think—didn't have time—just tackled Mesut. An arrow hissed so close overhead that Sami felt it clip his hair. A moment later one of the guards fell to the ground, the wicked missile buried in his throat.

Heart pounding, Sami looked up in time to see a black-clothed figure vanish over the garden wall. "After him!" Mutlu shouted as Sami helped Mesut up. Mesut pushed his hands away.

Running footsteps heralded the arrival of half a dozen guards from the adjoining corridor. Hot on their heels was the king, his own bodyguards clustered around him and thunderous rage lining his brow.

"Father—" Mesut tried to say. The king looked from Mutlu's pale face to the guard lying dead on the ground, and held up his hand for silence. Sami held his breath.

"Preparations are underway," said the king. "Mesut, you will go to the Cloven Isle and remain there until these forty days are past. The ship sets sail at noon. And meanwhile," to the guards crowding the walkway, "find the intruder!"

With that, the king turned and strode away. Mesut called out after him, pleading, but the king did not look back.

Now the moon hung high in the night, and the ship, discharged of its burdens, set out homeward. Mesut stood still by the bay, watching its silhouette diminish against the horizon. It would be thirty-eight days before those sails appeared again to take him home.

Sami wondered if he should say something, urge the prince to return to the encampment; it was getting late. He cleared his throat quietly. Mesut didn't turn around.

"I never thanked you," he said at length, "for saving my life. If not for you, I'd be dead already, prophecy or no." He turned to look at Sami then. "Some lousy reward this is, forcing you to share my exile for forty days."

"Only thirty-eight days left," Sami corrected him without thinking.

It earned him a laugh, soft and pure like silver bells. "You're right. I've already survived two days of my fate. What's thirty-eight more?"

Thirty-eight days, Sami inwardly to himself as he followed his prince back to encampment, where Mesut dismissed the servant boy who had laid out the prince's evening meal, allowing only Sami to remain with him in the silk-hung marquee. 

And thirty-eight days meant nothing at all, Sami realized—because he would give any number of days, any number of pains, for the kindness that he saw in Mesut's eyes. 

.

Within two days, Mesut had grown so impatient with his two attendants that, more often than not, Sami ended up being the one to wait on the prince. It was Sami who prepared the rosewater in a fine pewter bowl for ablutions, Sami who brought him his meals, lit the paneled lamps in the evenings and snuffed out the candles at night. 

The attendant boys threw him dirty looks when they thought he wasn't looking. The other guards kept their silence with knowing smirks. Sami ignored them all.

Sami accompanied Mesut when he wandered the island, exploring its slopes and bays, time wearing slow in the absence of all else. Not far from the encampment, there was a bubbling spring nestled high between the hills. Its waters tumbled and fell between mossy rocks and the arched roots of trees, and Mesut liked to follow it down to the sea. It was not an easy walking path, and Sami found himself constantly worrying that the prince would slip on a smooth stone or lose his footing among shifting earth. 

He found himself worrying about many things. The island was safe enough, having been scouted and searched dozens of times and now daily patrolled by the other guards. It didn't stop his worrying. Prophecies were slippery truths, but they happened for a reason, and Sami hated it. He preferred things that he could understand, things he could see and touch and hold in his hands—or at the edge of his blade.

"You don't have to keep looking over your shoulder, you know," Mesut said one day, without preamble, as they walked along the shore. "There's no danger here." 

Sami unconsciously touched the sword at his side. And he didn't miss the way Mesut's eyes flicked to his hand at that, the slight frown that turned down the corners of his mouth. 

"There's no danger, Sami," Mesut repeated. "Relax."

"That's not exactly part of my job description."

Mesut sighed; Sami ducked his head. "No," the prince agreed. "I guess not. But I wish you would."

The faint swatch of wild grass that they were following disappeared amid a tumble of rocks as they drew nearer to the edge of the curving bay. Mesut climbed onto a smooth outcropping, his feet as light and sure as a goat's, sat with folded knees at its edge, looking out over the sandier beach that swept down to the sea's blue waves. 

"Come sit with me," he said. When Sami hesitated, a wry smile curved Mesut's lips. "That's an order, you know. Come here."

Sami obeyed. The waves rolled in and broke on the shore below, and besides the water and the wind, all was peaceful. Mesut was silent; Sami told himself to sit still and not look around. At least not for this moment. He watched the sea. Somewhere across that distance, on a shore that these waters also edged, it was mid-morning in the marketplace and his father would be inspecting and rearranging the pottery he hoped to sell today; somewhere nearby Rani would be looking after the sweet old mule that carried their father's wares to market every day. Sami wondered how his brother was doing, whether Rani often thought of him, too.

As if reading his mind, Mesut spoke: "Tell me about where you're from. You weren't raised in the palace, were you? Or even in the city. I never met you, growing up."

"I'm from a small village, not far from the city. But I came to the palace years ago. The old armsmaster took me in."

"What about your family?"

"My brother, Rani, he still lives with our father in the village where I grew up. But they come to the market every day. My father does trade in pottery, and Rani helps out. He'll inherit the trade from our father." _Because I didn't._ Because he wouldn't, so Rani had to. Sometimes Sami wondered if Rani had ever forgiven him for that.

Mesut asked why they didn't move to the city, live together. Sami told him how that had been his dream since all those years ago, to get them a nice house right in town, something modest but spacious enough for his father to have a respectable shop, a place Rani could inherit with gladness.

"You care a lot about your brother."

Sami shrugged. "Rani and my father, they're all the family I have."

"It's good," said Mesut, looking down at the breaking waves, "it's good for older brothers to care. Mutlu wasn't always that way. But he's come around, especially this past year. Just wish I'd gotten to spend more time with him."

"There’s always time," Sami said, "after."

"After we go home?” Mesut smiled down at his own hands, picking at the perforated surface of the rock. "Do you have a girl waiting for you back home?"

The question surprised Sami. "No. There’s no girl."

"Well, why not?"

"What do you mean?" Sami blurted, then realized that Mesut was teasing him. 

"And that’s probably why," Mesut said. "You never even notice, do you? The girls all pining after you behind your back, it’s almost as bad as when Nuri visits."

Sami searched for something to say. What were you supposed to say in response to something like that? "I just have my mind on other things."

"Of course. But it wouldn’t hurt to notice them, too, once in a while. Notice people. You don’t want to regret it later when they’re not there anymore."

 _Why?_ Sami wanted to ask, but didn’t quite dare. He wondered what personal experience Mesut was speaking from, if any; because that didn’t sound like empty proverbs, didn’t sound like advice gleaned from books and unfeeling texts. 

"Do you miss them?" Mesut asked. "Anyone at all?"

"It’s only been eight days."

In the silence that followed, Sami thought maybe he shouldn’t have reminded the prince of the lengthy days, eight gone and thirty left until— What would happen on that fortieth day? Just the thought of it made Sami on edge; he glanced over his shoulder (couldn’t help it), but there was nothing apart from the wind and the sun-drenched color of mid-day skies and shore.

"You know what I miss?" Mesut’s voice cut across his thoughts. "The sound of other people’s voices. I kind of miss conversations, and I miss knowing what's happening—but mostly I just miss _hearing_ people. I always wanted to be left alone when I was surrounded by people. It’s only when they’re gone that you realize how much you needed them."

"There are people here, the other guards. You could talk to us."

Mesut shrugged, and there was a strange little smile on his face. "But you’re the only one who talks back."

And Sami could find nothing to say in return, nothing that helped the faint blush he could feel burning the tips of his ears. Mesut was content to let the conversation go. They returned to watching—Mesut watching the waves and Sami watching Mesut, the wind in his hair and the sun glowing on his white-robed shoulders. 

.

Sami studied the target. "Not bad."

Mesut narrowed his eyes; Sami's expression gave nothing away. Mesut huffed a frustrated breath and yanked one of the arrows out of the cloth-covered wood. "I can tell when you're patronizing me, you know." 

"I'm not." Sami helped Mesut free another arrow, one that had buried deep into the wood, his hands brushing the prince's aside: _Gently, don't force it._ "You know how to shoot a bow, and you can aim. You're just—"

"A failure at archery?" Mesut slid a handful of arrows back into the quiver. "No one's ever given me a bow as a gift, did you know? And Mutlu actively avoids taking me with him when he goes hunting. I'm—"

"—just a little tense," Sami cut in. "You're nervous, that's all. You think you can't do it, so you tense up. Then you make easy mistakes," and Sami couldn't keep the smile from the corner of his lips, "like way overshooting a target at a hundred paces and sending it at some poor bird in the tree—"

Mesut thrust the quiver at Sami. "All right, that's enough out of you. Shut up and show me what I'm doing wrong."

Smiling to himself, Sami carried the quiver back to the other end of the clearing, following his prince. The sky was swept free of clouds, and the late morning sun blinded more than it burned; he had to squint when he tried to look at Mesut directly, so bright was the light reflected off the silk of his tunic, the white glimmer of his earrings.

Everything still smelled of rain and thunder from last night's storm. It had been a restless night, and Mesut had woken equally restless. "Show me how you were trained to fight," he'd said to Sami, but they had no practice swords, and Sami refused to draw steel against the one whom he'd sworn to protect. So Mesut set one of the guards to fashion a pair of practice swords, for later, and Sami borrowed a bow and arrows from another guard, along with a small round target—small enough for him to haul up to a clearing farther up the hillside, a long stretch of wild grass and weeds and sunshine streaming down out of the clear morning air.

Mesut wasn't fond of the bow. That much had been apparent as soon as he lay fingers on the bowstring, drawing it back to the corner of his mouth with his right arm; the first arrow hit the target's outer ring with a thud. Sami watched—the way his eyes narrowed in concentration, the way his hair curled over his ears, the bright tunic covering his shoulders—the way he stood, tall. Held himself. Held the bow.

Several rounds of not-quite-on-target shots later, Mesut was looking distinctly disgruntled as they trudged back to the end of the clearing opposite of the target. Sami handed the quiver over to Mesut, waited until Mesut nocked an arrow and lifted the bow once more, his back straight, shoulders level.

Sami watched a moment, then stepped closer, "You're still nervous," and covered Mesut's hands with his own. Mesut tensed; Sami could feel the sharp press of his shoulderblades against his chest. He squeezed Mesut's wrist, once. "Breathe. Stop thinking about the target for a moment and remember yourself."

Mesut closed his eyes, opened them again. He raised the bow and drew back the string, Sami's hands shadowing, fingers brushing light over his knuckles. "Now focus the target," Sami's voice was soft against Mesut's ear, "Don't tense. Just focus." 

The arrow cut through the air in a clean line that ended just left of the bullseye. Mesut let out a long breath, and Sami stepped back. 

"I think," said Mesut, "that's enough for today. I'm not going to change anything in one morning."

Sami rubbed his own wrist absently, feeling the faint pulse beneath his fingers. "I think I know what the problem might be."

Mesut shrugged. "Practice?"

"No. You're left-eye dominant, but you were taught like you're right-eyed." Sami glanced at the target. "All your shots are always a little off, no matter how hard you try, right? It's not because you can't aim. It's because you're left-eyed."

Mesut was silent. He shifted the bow from his left hand to his right, holding it awkwardly, unfamiliar. "I'll have to learn how to shoot all over again."

"It'll just take some time to get coordinated. You're solid on the basics."

"This is your idea," said Mesut, "so I'm going to drag you up here every morning to watch me practice. I hope you're prepared." 

His voice was teasing, but he looked down at his own hands, avoiding eye contact. Sami tried not to remember how Mesut's heart had raced; the simplicity of the way his arms had _fit_ , circling Mesut's shoulders; the sun-kissed smell of his hair, and the pulse quickening under his fingertips like fluttering wingbeats of birds. 

"As long as you try not to startle the wildlife too much," he said, "my prince."

Mesut rolled his eyes at that, slung the quiver over his shoulder, told Sami to stop smirking and bring the target back down to the camp. It was nearly noon. 

.

It was easy—talking to Mesut, telling the stories of his life that Mesut seemed so keen to hear, and hearing his laugh in return. Teaching Mesut, watching him send arrow after arrow at the worn target until he was satisfied; lifting his gaze to see birds wheeling in the dome of a blue, blue sky. It was easy, spending endless hours wandering the island; the way Mesut sat beside him, waves lapping the beach below, a smile on Mesut's lips and his name soft on Mesut's tongue: _Sami_. 

It was easy to forget prophecies and the days sifting away. Easy to feel Mesut's shoulder resting light against his and forget how boundaries worked as days melted into days like waves into sand, the light brush of fingers over his wrist.

Too easy, perhaps. The thought crossed Sami's mind one evening as he sat outside his tent, running a sharpening stone along the edge of his sword, waiting. Mesut had spent the better part of the afternoon practicing archery—he improved by the day—and now Sami waited while the prince bathed before taking his evening meal. This, at least, the attendants still took care of. 

In the meantime Sami had a few moments to himself. Earlier, he'd waxed the bowstring, checked the fletching of the arrows and found a few ruined vanes. They would have to be replaced. But there were those practice swords, so perhaps tomorrow they could work on swordfighting instead.

Late afternoon sunlight flared burnt gold along the length of his blade. Sami put the sharpening stone away; Mesut would want to eat soon. 

He was picking up a platter of food from the cooking fire when Emre bumped his shoulder hard enough that he nearly dropped the plate. Hard enough to hurt. Faint snickers brushed his ears; the sneer was undisguised in Emre's voice as the other guard took his place by the fireside with the rest of those not currently on duty.

"Careful there, Sami. Can't be so careless with your hands. You've got to serve the prince well, if you're to please him."

The laughter was readily audible this time. Sami felt his ears burning, and not just with the heat from the fire. 

"I'd watch your tongue if I were you."

"Oh?" The firelight flickered across Emre's face, turned his familiar features sinister with shadow. "You think you can order me around now? Just because you're the prince's little pet?"

Sami set down the platter. "Stand up and say that to my face again," he all but spat out. The echoes of nervous laughter faded away. Emre didn't move.

"Not everyone is like you and takes orders as easily as a whore—"

Sami drew his sword; his ears rang, pounding blood. Emre scrambled to his feet, stumbling back a step even as the others cried out at the sudden gesture of violence—and one voice rose above the rest,

"Hold! Damn you, hotheaded both!" 

Sami paused at the sound of Oguz's voice; the captain of the guard strode forward, his face like thunder. Emre tried to fade back amongst the rest of the guards, but Oguz caught him by the elbow. 

"Watch your tongue, Emre. Whatever you may think of yourself, I won't tolerate you speaking of the prince like this. And you," he rounded on Sami. His voice was full of steel, "Lower your sword. Your blade is for guarding, not for pleasing your own pride. Remember what your place is, boy. You have a job to do. See that you do it well."

Sami's gaze never left Emre's face. The other guard looked away first, shook off Oguz and sat down by the fire again. Sami returned the sword to its sheath; his hands were shaking. He picked up the platter of food and walked away, blood still ringing in his ears, the captain's eyes watching his every step.

 _It's been more than twenty days here on the island_ , he realized. Remembered. Twenty days.

And of course he'd known there were whispers. The sly glances, the knowing smiles. But to hear the venom in Emre's voice, the hard disgust in his eyes— 

The guard posted by the prince's marquee nodded at him as Sami pushed the tent flap aside. Mesut, pacing by the entrance, looked up when Sami walked in.

"I heard raised voices," he said. His hair was still wet, and the dark blue tunic was nearly black in the lamplight. "Is everything alright?"

Sami nodded wordlessly. He set the food down by the low couch ensconced between candles and flower jars. Arranged the plates of flatbread and cakes, dried grapes and muscat nuts, roast mutton stuffed with almond and spice. Melons freshly cut and cool and sweet.

"Sami."

A light touch on his shoulder made him lift his gaze; Mesut was looking at him with a question in his eyes. Sami looked away. Forty days had seemed so little time in the face of prophecy, but now it might as well have been forty eternities. He wondered when time had begun to trick him like this.

"It was about me, wasn't it," Mesut was saying. When Sami didn't respond, he went on, "I'm sorry you're caught in the middle. I wish— I know they don't— Not that I can blame them."

"It wasn't," Sami tried to say. But he didn't know how to continue.

Mesut was silent. After a moment, he began, "Sometimes I wonder, what if," and returned to his pacing, wearing at the rugs spread beneath his feet. Sami tried to stand still by the low-set couch. Told himself to breathe, quiet. Mesut's pacing made him anxious, made his fingers curl and uncurl empty around insubstantial air with every step that Mesut took.

"Sometimes I wonder," Mesut murmured. Then, "Have you ever loved a girl?" and it was enough to startle a response out of Sami,

"A girl?"

"Have you?" Mesut was staring at some point on the marquee's silk-hung walls. Or perhaps beyond. His voice was soft, "Because she was beautiful, my Melek. I couldn't have her. Not as I wanted. She was beautiful, but she was just a servant girl, and if I told her— If I told her come, then she came. Go, and she went. She would have done whatever I said—because she had to, not because she felt any affection for me. Anyone, they all would. It's always like this." 

Every word was leaden sorrow dragging on the breath in his lungs. Sami's fingers curled into fists but still couldn't stop the trembling in his hands, and he wondered how this could have seemed easy. How any of this could have seemed anything but what it was: impossible. 

Because they would be forty days here, waiting in the shadow of prophecy, waiting on fate—and Mesut was speaking of _affection_. Impossibility.

"No," Sami whispered. Unheard. 

"Anyone," Mesut said again. His gaze flickered across Sami's face, flitted away again. "I shouldn't even hope anymore, because it's the same. With everyone."

"No," Sami heard himself say, louder, and it was like hearing himself echoed from a great distance, "not everyone."

Mesut's restless feet ceased in their tracks.

"I could not." His tongue felt heavy, "Not even if," and the words sank into silence.

Mesut's voice gave nothing away. "Not even if?" 

"No." _Because there are some distances that must be maintained_ , Sami didn't say. It was his duty, his place; he needed this last bit of breathing space. He couldn't afford to be distracted. He tried a smile, "Not that I even need to worry about it. I'm not exactly your beautiful girl."

"No." Mesut didn't laugh. "You aren't— No. You don't. And I didn't mean." He folded his arms, hands wrapped around his own elbows. "Nothing. Never mind."

Sami clasped his hands behind his back. "Was there anything else you wanted, my prince?"

"No." Mesut's shoulders slumped almost imperceptibly with a soft sighing breath. "You can go, Sami. Take the evening for yourself, if you want. Find Hasan. It's about time he performed his duties like he's supposed to."

Sami bowed his head, though Mesut's back was still turned. He lingered a moment longer, silence stretching like a single strand of spiderweb; then he turned and left. The tent flap pushed heavy against his hand, and he stepped outside into the hazy semi-dark of dusk. 

Something beat hollow against his lungs: a bird, a voice, a cadence of lapping waves. His hands were still trembling. At least it was too dark for anyone else to notice.

 _Forty days_ , he reminded himself, and set off in search of the attendant boy. 

.

Days passed in slow succession, each morning dawning brighter than the last. Mesut spent his waking hours writing letters that would never be sent—letters to Mutlu, mostly, inquiring after their father, their allies, the kingdom, the campaign—and these were all stacked in a corner of the marquee, beside the unstrung bow. 

Sami kept a respectful distance. He took his post outside the prince's tent and watched the attendant boys come and go with food and drink and bright-threaded robes. They brought basins of perfumed water for ablutions, lit the paneled lamps in the evenings and snuffed out the soft candles at night. 

At night Sami slept uneasily, half awake, and often caught himself listening for the hiss of arrows in flight, the soft sound of his own name on another's lips. He counted the days like petals fading one by one in summer's wake.

Perhaps it was Oguz' doing, but no one commented on the sudden silence between them: the letters, the attendants. Mesut's self-imposed isolation. No one said a word—until Sami bumped into Emre while heading back to his tent one evening.

"Hasan told me," Emre said, and Sami could hear the smirk twisting his mouth. "Seems like you didn't please the prince well enough to keep his interest for long."

The moon was dimmed behind clouds, but Sami could see well enough. The first punch connected squarely with Emre's jaw. His fist came away bruised, flecked with spittle and perhaps even a bit of blood. The other guard stumbled back; the left hook caught him in the gut. Sami grabbed him by the elbow and _twisted_ , forcing him to his knees. But Emre had been trained to fight just as he had, and now Emre threw his own weight forward, threw Sami off balance, snapped his head back so that his skull collided with the side of Sami's face. Pain blacked out his vision for a moment—enough time for Emre to get his breath back and call for help. 

If only he had run into Emre in some deserted part of the island, he might have drawn his sword and ended this in a moment. The thought crossed Sami's mind as he shoved Emre, hard, kicked him to the ground like a dog. He could already hear the footsteps approaching, the running shouts of the guards. 

Strong hands pulled them apart. Strong hands with grips of iron that threw him to the ground with his hands pinned at his back. Emre had hit him hard enough to split his lip, and he could taste the blood but didn't feel any of the pain, only cold rage.

They bound his hands and dragged him before Oguz, forced him to kneel beside the flickering flames of the campfire. The guards crowded around in a circle. Voices echoed around him but Sami couldn't hear anything over the sound of ringing in his ears.

"—speak, boy!" Oguz thundered, and Sami slowly raised his eyes. The captain's expression was unreadable. "Emre accuses you of attacking him, and judging by his injuries, it's almost certain that you did. Is there anything you have to say for yourself?"

Sami looked away. "No."

"So you admit your fault?"

"Yes."

Oguz took a step forward. "Then for disobeying orders, for assaulting another guard and breaking every code between—"

"What is going on here?"

The circle parted to reveal Mesut. Sami felt the sweat forming on the palms of his hands, felt the ice drain from his veins to leave blood pulsing hot beneath his skin. The prince strode forward toward the fire; the tunic he wore was colored like the moon, and his face looked pale in the light of the yellow flames. 

"My prince," said Oguz. "We did not mean to disturb you."

Mesut's gaze flickered from the captain to Sami and back. "What is going on," he asked a second time.

"There is nothing you need worry about, my prince. Just a small matter of discipline. He will be flogged, and taught his lesson."

Sami fixed his eyes to the ground. 

Mesut said, "You will do no such thing."

Silence followed. The fire crackled, flames licking the darkness with bright sparks.

"Prince Mesut," Oguz' voice was hard, "this is a matter of your own safety. Discipline must be maintained. I can't let him go unpunished. As I am captain of your guard—"

"So you are," said Mesut, "and last I checked, I was still your prince. Now untie his hands."

No one moved.

"I said untie his hands."

Hesitant footsteps, then quicker; the rough hemp binding his wrists fell away. Sami didn't dare look up, didn't dare look into Mesut's face. Something raw howled in his chest; he beat it back. Then someone was hauling him to his feet, let go too quick, and he stumbled. A firm pair of hands caught him by the arm.

"Come with me," said Mesut, his voice pitched so that only Sami could hear.

The circle parted again to let them through. No one would meet his eyes. Sami didn't care. His wrists were raw with rope burn, and he could only follow as Mesut walked ahead, a pale shape in the dark. The angry light of the fire fell away behind them.

Mesut dismissed the guard outside his marquee, dismissed the attendants as well. He held the tent flap open until Sami followed him inside, then tied it shut. Sami kept his eyes lowered—until strong fingers grabbed his chin and forced him to look up. The prince's eyes were dark, worried, his brow furrowed, and there was something not unlike anger in his voice when he demanded,

"What did you _do_?"

"Gave Emre what he had coming to him." Sami tried to turn away from the frown on Mesut's face. "You shouldn't have stopped Oguz. He's right to enforce discipline."

Mesut let Sami go. "I don't care if it's right or not. That's not the point."

 _Then what is?_ Sami didn't ask. Because Mesut was looking up at him. His lips didn't smile, but there was a question in his eyes— Sami stepped back. Had no choice but to step back. Because they were too close.

"Sami," Mesut said and took a step forward, daring him to move away again.

Sami's hand went instinctively to the sword at his side. "I took an oath," he began, but then Mesut closed his fingers over Sami's bruised knuckles, over the hilt of his sword; his hand was shockingly warm. Sami swallowed. "I took an oath," he tried again. "My duty is to defend you from danger."

Mesut brushed two fingers, gently, against the bruise purpling on Sami's cheek. "There's no danger here, and you know it."

"I can't—" Sami said, but the scant distance between them was quickly disappearing. 

Then Mesut's lips touched his. 

And then there was no breathing space at all. 

It took more willpower than he would confess to push Mesut away. "You can't ask this of me."

Mesut caught him by the wrist. "You don't have to say yes."

"I can _not_ —"

"You _shouldn't_ ," Mesut tangled his other hand in Sami's hair, drawing him closer, "but you can."

Of course he could. Sami knew that he could, if he wanted—he could turn his hand and lace Mesut's fingers between his own. He could kiss Mesut again, push him down onto the couch covered with woven spreads and run his thumb over Mesut's stark collarbones and map the veins translucent beneath his skin. It would mean surrendering to weakness—to Mesut, to beauty that robbed him of sense—but he could.

So he did.

And it was almost too perfect, the way Mesut sighed into his mouth and curled his legs around the back of Sami's knees, pressed against him, hand to hand and skin to skin. The way Mesut fit in his open arms. Clicked like a key in a well-made lock. 

After, as he drew Mesut close, shared his breaths and tasted the cinnamon on Mesut's tongue, tasted the sweetness mingled with the blood of his own lips, felt the warmth of the heartbeat fluttering beneath his fingertips—after, he saw how distance was a lie. Because if this was weakness, then he was stronger for it. Because he would die to protect this beauty caught in his hands, the pulse in Mesut's throat that pumped the blood through both their veins. 

It seemed impossible, and it should have been. But in this moment—in the safe haven of now—it was not only possible, it was easy.

.

_Thus the prince passed thirty-nine days and nights on the island, alone but for his loyal guardsmen, each of whom would have given his life before seeing harm come to his prince, for they all loved him dearly. The fortieth day dawned without incident, and thinking that the danger was past, the prince looked forward to the ship that would take him home._

.

On the last day, Mesut woke before dawn. For a long moment he just lay there, motionless. He tried to remember what he had been dreaming of. It had been a bad dream, he knew, but that was all.

He reached out and found the space beside him empty. Mesut sat up, squinting into the darkness. Sami was a silhouette pacing by the entrance, back and forth, back and forth, as his feet wore silent tracks into the carpet.

"Couldn't sleep again?"

Sami started, pausing mid-step. "Did I wake you?"

"No," said Mesut. "Come back to bed."

Sami lay down beside him. The fabric of his tunic was cold, and Mesut pressed close to warm them both. He felt Sami sigh into his hair, kiss the top of his head, murmur soft syllables under his breath like a prayer.

When he woke again, it was morning; Sami was gone. He was alone apart from the silence creeping up all around him, and not for the first time Mesut felt a chill run down his spine.

"Sami?" he called. Just to see, because sometimes Sami would be outside, around the corner, coming back with some thing or other that he thought Mesut needed, when really all Mesut ever wanted was for him to be there.

Now the tent flap drew back, and Sami stepped inside with a pitcher of water. Mesut supposed the expression on his face must have given him away, because Sami took one look, set down the pitcher, and was at his side in the space of a breath.

"I'm here," said Sami, taking Mesut's hands into his own. "Sorry. I'm here."

Mesut wanted to tell him, _It's fine, I'm not afraid, I don't need you to watch over me like this._ Except it wasn't, he was, and he did need this.

"I was just wondering where you went."

"Your hands are cold." Sami ran his fingers over Mesut's white knuckles. "Are you scared?"

Mesut smiled at the concern in Sami's eyes. "Why? I've got you, and you're more persistent than any curse."

"Don't say that until," Sami began, but thought better of it. He tried again, "Tomorrow, at dawn—"

Mesut shushed him with two fingers over his lips. "Tomorrow can look after itself. First, today. Help me get dressed."

Sami inclined his head, and said nothing more.

Mesut chose the colors of his outfit: green over white. His favorite. He could feel the dark heat in Sami's eyes, watching him, and he held still as Sami straightened the embroidered vest over his shoulders, buttoned it up with slow, careful fingers.

"You like it?" he asked. Mesut knew the answer, was counting on it, but he still shivered to hear the the rough edge Sami's voice as he smoothed a hand over the last button and said,

"I do."

Sami's face was barely a hand's width away from his own. Mesut tipped his head back and let Sami kiss him, then kissed him slowly in return, tasting the contours of his lips before flicking his tongue into the corners of Sami's mouth. Sami's hand slid up along his spine. His fingers were light over the silk vest, warm against the back of Mesut's neck.

"Breakfast?" Sami murmured after what seemed a brief eternity.

Mesut hummed his contentment. "Kiss me again, first," he said, and Sami obeyed readily enough.

After a light meal of bread, soft cheese, and hot fragrant tea, Mesut said, "Let's go walk around the island. One last time." Sami gave him a long look, and Mesut added, "It's a beautiful day."

Sami packed a small bag with food, filled a waterskin from the silver pitcher, and followed Mesut out into the sunlight. It didn't escape Mesut's notice that he already had one hand on the sword at his side. He started to say something about it, but they had gone only a few steps before Emre approached them. Mesut could practically hear the snarl that twisted Sami's lips.

The other guard bowed deeply to Mesut. In his hands he held the prince's bow and quiver.

"I've repaired the arrows that needed repairing." He wouldn't meet Mesut's eyes. "I thought. If you wished to practice. My prince."

"Thank you," Mesut said, and Sami took the things from Emre's hands. Sami said nothing, just looked at Emre until the other man ducked his head once more and went away. Then he slung the bow and quiver over his shoulder and kept walking. Mesut fell into step beside him.

They passed beyond the circle of the clearing and into the shadow of trees. Sunlight filtered down between leafy branches, dappled like fawnskin, splintering in his hands. Mesut closed his fingers over his palm.

"You're still so cold to Emre," he remarked. "When are you going to forgive him?"

Sami's steps were soft over the loamy ground. "He insulted you. And not just once."

"I've forgiven him for that." Mesut stepped around a gnarled tree root. "I forgive him and his temper, just like I forgive you and your stubbornness."

"That's not the same thing."

"Why?"

Sami brushed aside a low-hanging branch and held it so it wouldn't snap back into Mesut's face. "You love me and my stubbornness," he said.

They came to the bubbling, leaping stream and followed it down to the gem-blue sea. Then they followed the shoreline, alternating sand for stone and stone for sand. The sun drifted careless across the dome of the sky. Circling the island, the path they chose could be covered twice over in the course of a day, but they took their time, lingering step by step, and time wore slow.

It was strange to think that, come tomorrow, these endless days would finally end. As much as Mesut tried not to, he couldn't help but think of tomorrow. Tomorrow, the ship would come to take him home. Tomorrow, his exile would end. Tomorrow, Sami would return to being just another guard.

Or would he? _Could_ he?

It seemed strange to think. Strange to imagine a life apart from these days filled with time and loneliness and Sami. Sami, who was in his every waking moment and each half-remembered dream. Sami, who brought him water in silver pitchers and lit the paneled lamps when darkness fell. Sami, who looked at him with such fierce protectiveness at times that it scared Mesut, almost.

Because even now Sami still looked over his shoulder at every rustle of leaves, every breath of air. It set Mesut's nerves on edge.

"What are you watching for?" Mesut snapped at one point. He grabbed Sami's wrist, pulled him to a stop and forced him to met his eyes. "There's no one here. What are you afraid of?"

Instead of replying, Sami kissed him. And, once he got over his initial surprise, Mesut kissed him back. Noon broke diamond bright above them; the sound of sand-bound waves washed over his ears. Mesut tangled his hands in Sami's dark hair and breathed him in lieu of air, and there was something half-possessive, half-desperate in the way Sami's arms curled around his hips, pressing impossibly close.

They ate their midday meal by a patch of tall wild grass that grew just above the pebbled shore. Mesut watched the waves breaking over stone. Sami scanned the sky over the island's cloven peak. There was a valley, nestled high between the hills and overgrown with wildflowers and weeds, and at its center was a clear pool fed from the same spring that tumbled into the stream Mesut so loved.

Mesut followed the line of his gaze. "Want to go?" he asked. Sami nodded.

They took their time making their ascent up the island's gently sloping northern face. The forest fell thickly to the west, beside the path they took, and to their left the grass grew rocky, but the ground beneath their feet was soft and firm. Time passed lazily, stretching languid and feline in the afternoon heat.

The smell of a thousand blooming plants greeted them when they finally reached the valley held aloft between the double peaks. Mesut picked his way among the tangled weeds until he came to a clear, rocky space beside the pool. Sami sat beside him, and Mesut dipped his feet in the water. Ripples echoed across the mirror-like surface.

"Tomorrow," Mesut said, resting his head on Sami's shoulder; he felt Sami tense at the word. "Tomorrow, we go back."

"You said tomorrow could take care of itself."

"It's nearly sundown. Tomorrow, it won't matter anymore. Things will go back to normal."

Sami didn't ask what _normal_ meant. Maybe he already knew.

Mesut buried his face into the crook of Sami's neck, breathing in the scent of him. Linen, sweat. The last clinging remnants of incense, the sharp clean fragrance of pine; and beneath it all, he could smell himself—so faint and familiar that he could barely detect it, but it was undoubtedly there.

A thought came to him. "Are you still going to be my bodyguard? When we go back?"

"Yes," Sami said, unhesitating. "Unless Oguz has me flailed alive for thoroughly disobeying orders."

"Then Oguz can flail his own orders. I'm keeping you."

Mesut felt Sami press a kiss to the top of his head, smile against his hair. "In that case," said Sami.

He got no further than that, as they both heard the sudden tramp of running footsteps. Sami pushed Mesut away and sprang to his feet, sword already in hand. Moments later, a familiar figure broke through the shadow of the encircling trees: Emre. Sami didn't lower his sword. He stood between Mesut and Emre as the other guard approached, stumbling over the thickly grown plants in his haste.

"What are you doing here?" Sami demanded as soon as Emre was within earshot.

Emre shook his head, fighting to get enough air into his lungs to speak. "You have to go. Run."

"What?"

"Pirates," Emre said, and Mesut saw the blood drain from Sami's face. "Pirates. They landed on the blind side of the island. They shouldn't have been able. They. The camp is taken. Oguz is trying to hold them off, but they're coming. I came to tell you. You have to. I'll cover your trail. Run!"

Sami didn't need to be told again. He grabbed Mesut's hand and made for the cover of the trees. Mesut looked back, once, and saw Emre disappear in another direction. He could hear the distant sound of shouting, boots tramping over the ground, the hiss of steel.

They ran. Sami's grip was bruising on Mesut's wrist, and the ground sloped steadily downward to the sea, even as the setting sun did the same. Shadows grew longer and the trees grew thicker the farther they went, Sami choosing the path that would take them through the densest part of the forest covering the island. Mesut couldn't tell if they were being pursued; he didn't dare look back. He could barely hear his own footsteps over the blood roaring in his ears.

Suddenly, Sami stopped. His arm caught Mesut around his waist, halting him as well. From where they stood, he could see the red glow of fire, farther up the hillside: the campsite. He could also see the glimmer of the bay, below, just beyond this line of trees. Not far now. Mesut took another step forward; Sami held him back.

"That'll be the first place they look for you. You'll have to hide here, until dawn." Sami pulled a small sharp dagger from his boot and pressed it into Mesut's palm, then pushed Mesut back toward a tall tree with branches that spread twisting into the darkened sky. "Climb. Hide up there until the ship comes."

Mesut caught Sami's hand. "What about you?"

"I'm going back—"

"I'm not going without you!"

Sami gently pried Mesut's fingers from his wrist. "I'm no use to you here. I have to find Oguz. If there are enough of us left, maybe we can hurt them enough to convince them to give up. Or at least hold them off for a little longer. Either way, I need to go back."

"I'm not going without you," Mesut repeated.

"You have to," said Sami. "Just as I have a duty to you, you have a duty to your people." He dropped to his knees and raised Mesut's hand to his lips, kissed the knuckles of his white clenched fist. Mesut's breath caught in his throat, and Sami whispered, "Live long, my prince."

He rose to his feet, turned, and was gone before Mesut could do more than call his name.

.

He climbed the tree and wedged himself between two gnarled branches. Shivering, he watched twilight settle into evening and smoke rise high above the island's cloven peak. He heard the clashing of steel, shouts and cries of pain. It sounded close, moving ever closer—until suddenly it all stopped. The waters of the curving bay were black in the night.

Into the silence came the tramp of boots and mismatched steps, heading toward the cove. The pirates passed so close to where Mesut was hiding he could see the beards on their individual faces. A dozen of them, their hair and clothes ragged and unkept. The light of their torches reflected off the bare swords in their hands.

They had a dark-robed figure with them: one of the guards, taken prisoner. But not without difficulty. He was still struggling, though his hands had been bound behind his back, and his keepers cuffed him each time he resisted.

A slant of moonlight fell across him just as they drew close. Mesut caught a clear glimpse of the prisoner's bloodied face and felt his heart go still:

They had Sami.

.

The pirates waited in silence until they were joined by several groups of stragglers. Mesut counted eighteen men in total. Their leader seemed to be the long-haired man in the center of the circle. He spoke to each of the groups that trickled in, shaking his head in disgust each time and stalking to the next man to hear his report.

Finally he turned to their prisoner. Sami had been forced to his knees, and the pirates gathered around him. Their leader barked out something in his harsh-sounding tongue. Sami didn't look up.

"You understand me?" the long-haired man said next, switching to a trade language. Mesut strained his ears to hear. "Where is your prince?"

Sami remained motionless.

The man pointed his sword to Sami's throat. With the tip of his blade, he forced Sami to look up. "Tell me where he is. We know he is here. You tell us, or we burn this island."

"I know your lies." Sami's voice was steady. "He is no use to you dead."

"And you are no use dead or alive." Sami tilted his head back as the blade pressed closer to his throat. Mesut reached for the dagger Sami had given him. "Tell me where he is, and we maybe consider again how much your life is worth."

Mesut didn't wait to hear Sami's answer. He knew what Sami's answer would be; it wouldn't be an answer that would prolong his life. And that was part of his duty, Mesut knew—just as it was his own duty to _not_ do what he was about to.

He slid down from his perch, stepped from the tree shadows onto the moonlit beach.

Three things happened at once: Sami cried out, " _No_ —"; the pirates surged toward him, weapons drawn; Mesut raised his dagger—and pointed it at his own throat.

Everything stopped.

Mesut would have smiled if his heart weren't beating against his ribcage like a frightened bird. The pirate leader sheathed his sword. His teeth were white and gleamed faintly against the dark silhouette of his face.

"The prince comes to us."

"Let him go," said Mesut, using the same language of trade. "Let him go, or I kill myself, and you have no hostage."

"Run, you damned _fool_ —"

Mesut saw one of the pirates kick Sami in the ribs; he doubled over, winded, and the pirate pressed his face against the ground, effectively silencing him. Mesut turned his attention back to their leader. The long-haired man took a step toward him, his hands spread in a mockery of peace.

"Put your blade down," he said, even as the other pirates crept around in a slow circle. Mesut watched them from the corner of his eye. They were hemming him in. Their leader said, "Put your blade down. I will not harm him."

"Swear it by the gods you believe."

The man said nothing for long moments. Then, "I swear this by the one who is in heaven, and I swear also on my mother's grave: I will not harm your guard."

"Promise that none of your men will touch him."

"None of us will harm him. I swear this to you."

Sami was struggling against the two men holding him down. Mesut could see him thrashing against his bonds, against all odds—and for a moment he wondered why. Why Sami had always been so loyal, and remained so even now. Why, when there was no reward for his loyalty, and no retribution should he choose to save his own life.

But Mesut was doing the same, wasn't he? He was lowering the dagger, trusting their lives to the word of a long-haired pirate. Surrendering himself—

Strong hands grabbed his arms as soon as he turned the blade away from his throat. The dagger was pried from his grip. Someone smothered his face with a cloth soaked in noxious-smelling liquid. He gasped, and the fumes filled his lungs. His vision began to fade.

He struggled, but it was useless. Moments later, the darkness took him.

.


	2. Chapter 2

_The pirates took the prince aboard their ship and sailed swiftly over the waves, bearing him away to a city that lay beside a many-mouthed river, far in the west of the world where the sun sets over blood-red seas._

.

His hearing returned first. Someone was talking to him, dabbing his forehead with a damp cloth, and he opened his eyes—slowly—to a brown face set beneath a mop of dark curly hair. The man smiled, peering down at him."

"You are awake, finally." His words were accented. "You can understand me?"

Mesut nodded, disoriented. It took some effort to turn his head. He was lying on a low bed, a hard pillow pressing against his cheek. He looked past the curly-haired man and saw a small room, windowless, with a door set in the far wall. 

He raised his left hand—and found that he couldn't. Mesut stared at the cord tying his wrists together, flexed his fingers. It was impossible to tell if what he felt was numbness or pain.

The door banged open. A voice rang out in a strange, rolling tongue.

That voice came closer, and the dark-haired man at his bedside withdrew. Mesut looked up into a pair of stern hazel eyes and an unsmiling face. The man signaled for someone behind him—several someones, actually, Mesut discovered a moment later, as a pair of helmed guardsmen took him by the arms and hauled him to his feet. He stumbled. The floor seemed to heave, as if he were still on a ship rather than dry land—

Ship. _Pirates._

"Where," he started to say, but his voice was no more than dry rasp. He coughed, swallowed. "Where's Sami? My guard, Sami. Where is he?"

His captors tugged on his arms. He resisted instinctively. Pain exploded against the back of his head, knocking him forward and making his vision blur. They dragged him to the door. 

The stern-eyed man lead the way, striding with purpose through the stone halls lit by flickering torchlight, one hand resting on the sword at his side. He wore gloves, Mesut noticed: undyed cloth lined with white leather. They passed by groups of guardsmen, soldiers, servants, brightly-dressed people whom Mesut could only guess were courtesans, and all around him sounded the strange, rolling language that he didn't understand—but could recognize. He recognized the place in the details. The curious stone architecture, the lion head designs on the guards' armor, the crowned pommel stone of the gloved man's sword—

He knew, even before they forced him to kneel before the throne, courtiers thronging around him, and their whispers rising like a deafening roar to the rafters of the great hall—he knew that he was in the court of the Tartessian King. 

("We conquered them once," he remembered his father saying, back when he and Mutlu had still been very young. They'd sat at his feet while he showed them the shields, the beautifully wrought metals, trophies of war. "And we will take even greater tribute from them, one day, when you are grown.")

"Welcome," said the king. His voice held a deep, mellow sound. "Welcome, young prince. You are a royal guest among us, and I welcome you to my halls."

Mesut felt the guardsmen withdraw from his side. He looked up into the king's grey-bearded face. The cold stone floor dug into his knees; he didn't trust himself to stand. 

"You are not a prisoner, understand," the king said. An echo of uneasy laughter rippled amongst the courtiers. "We will only keep you until your father sees fit to return the riches that your people once took from us. Then we will return you to him. A fair trade, wouldn't you agree?"

Mesut stared into the face of his captor. The king merely smiled. "Have you nothing to say at all? Don't be afraid. So long as your father complies, you will not be harmed. I swear this to you."

_None of us will harm him. I swear this to you._

"Where is my guard?"

A hissing whisper arose from the gathered courtiers at the sound of his voice. The king raised his hand for order, and silence fell.

"What have you done with him," Mesut asked again.

"Your guard?" said the king. He seemed amused. "What good can one soldier do you now, little princeling? But if you must know. Puyol. Tell what became of him."

A man with long curling hair stepped forward: the pirate captain. The one who had sworn to him— He should have known. No mere pirate would have been so audacious, not without a powerful patron protecting his back.

"We swore to take no prisoners, apart from the one that you wanted," Puyol said to the king. "But I also gave this prince my word, that we wouldn't kill his guard." He glanced at Mesut. "I'm a man of honor. The boy suffered no harm by our hands. Instead, we gave him to the sea. And whether the nymphs of the deep chose to keep their prize, well, that's not for me to say..."

.

The guardsmen took him back to the windowless room. This time, Mesut didn't resist them. They stood at the door, one on each side, armed with tall bronze-tipped spears, their faces masked by metal helms. 

A soft knock, then the door opened to admit the dark-skinned man from earlier. His cloth was poor, cut like a servant's. He set a pitcher down by the door, gave Mesut a toothy smile and introduced himself as Marcelo. 

"They said I'm to look after you," he explained. "What you need—to eat, to wear, to use. You just tell me."

Mesut looked around the room, at the cold floor, the bare walls, a low table by the bed on which he sat. He looked down at his hands folded in his lap. He was still wearing the white tunic, the green vest with the buttons that—

He beat back the tightness in his chest and asked Marcelo for a change of clothes. "Black. Something simple. And a rug to kneel upon."

Marcelo returned with the things quickly enough, and brought a candle, as well. Mesut thanked him, refused the food that Marcelo tried to give him, asking only to be left alone. The guards bolted the door after Marcelo left.

Mesut put on the colors of mourning, washed himself with water from the pitcher. Shadows danced on the walls by candlelight. He knelt on the braided rug and prayed until the candle burned down to nothing. Only then did he let himself weep.

It was his fault. To have consented to going to the cursed island, to have trusted a pirate, to have forced Sami into such deadly loyalty as this— 

His fault. All his fault.

.

In the sunless, windowless room, there was no way to keep track of time, but for Marcelo. Apart from fleeting glimpses of the guards at his door, Marcelo was the only living creature that Mesut saw. Marcelo came three times a day: at dawn, at noon, and once more when evening fell. Each time he came bearing plates of food, each time with the same plea: "You must eat, young prince." 

Mesut refused. How could he eat with these hands, these lips that had caused Sami's death? It should have been him. It was _supposed_ to be him. But the stars had been false, after all.

Morning to evening, evening to noon. As night fell on the third day, Marcelo's knock sounded at the door. Mesut didn't move from where he lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, praying for the end.

The door opened. 

"The king won't let you die this easily," said an unfamiliar voice.

It was the stern-faced man who had taken him to the king on the first day. He was wearing those same gloves, the white ones, but he was unarmed. Marcelo stood behind him, carrying a platter of food. 

"You will eat," the man continued. "By force, if necessary. A dead hostage is of no use to anyone. You know that well yourself."

Mesut turned his eyes back to the ceiling. He was a useless hostage anyway, he knew. The tracts of land, the trade agreements, the treaties, the gold—the "fair exchange" that the Tartessian king spoke of would be a crippling blow to Mesut's father. Mesut knew his own worth; it did not match up. He was the second prince, the younger son. He would not succeed the throne. His father would not ransom him, Mesut knew. Not for half the kingdom.

Someone tugged on his arm. Marcelo. 

"Please," he whispered, his kind eyes dark with worry. "Please, young prince. I will be in trouble, as well, if you keep doing this. At least sit with Iker, and listen to him. He is captain of the guard."

When Marcelo moved to help him stand, Mesut let him. He saw that a few other guardsmen had come in and set two chairs around the table, which they had moved to the center of the room. A plate of cheese sat upon the table, accompanied by a jug of water and a small basket filled with bread.

Marcelo steered Mesut into one of the chairs. The hazel-eyed man, Iker, took the seat opposite. The others then left the room. Iker took off his gloves and set them carefully on the table.

"Some of the guards admire you," Iker said, breaking the silence. "They say you are a noble prince, for preferring to die instead of being bartered as a hostage. But I don't think you're doing this out of duty."

Mesut stared warily across the table. 

Iker held his gaze easily, studying him. "I heard about how you were captured. You could have escaped, but you turned yourself over to Puyol. And for what?"

Mesut looked down at his hands. The memory was still fresh in his mind.

"Your guard," said Iker. "He was very important to you, wasn't he."

It wasn't a question; Mesut didn't respond.

Iker sighed. "I knew a man, once," he began. "A great warrior from barbarian isles to the north, lands that we subdued, when I was much younger. We killed their men, enslaved their women. Many fled. Not this man. He would have given his life to protect his people, though it was clear that there was no hope. 

"I fought against him. He was already wounded, or I doubt I could've overpowered him otherwise. He was defiant to the last. Out of admiration, I took him captive, rather than killing him. I brought him back to these halls and made him a soldier under my command, in exchange for his life.

"He felt no loyalty to King Del Bosque, but he fought bravely by my side. For a similar reason that I took him captive, or so he told me. He told me that he would gladly have died to save what was dear to him, but he could not, so instead he would breathe for those who no longer could, and he would live for his companions who had died. Just as he would have given his life for them, he said, he would want them to live on, if things had been reversed."

"Those are fine excuses," Mesut whispered, unable to stop himself, "for a traitor, a deceptive man."

Iker filled a finely-wrought brass cup with water from the jug. "This man's loyalty never wavered," he said. "When we set out on the northern campaigns again, years later, he refused to fight."

Silence.

"What happened to him?"

Iker pushed the cup forward. "Drink, young prince." He took a loaf of bread from the basket and tore it in two, offering half to Mesut, "Eat, in honor of those who gave their lives so that you could. There will be time for stories later."

"Your warrior." Mesut gazed at his own rippling reflection in the cup. "He was also important to you, wasn't he."

"He was."

"What was his name?" 

"David," said Iker, and there was a strange light in his eyes as he formed those syllables on his tongue. _Day-vid._ "His name was David."

.

Excessive mourning, Mesut knew, was unrighteous in the eyes of both God and men. Sami would not have wanted him to follow him to the grave; Sami would have wanted him to live.

Iker came by, twice each day, and the table was set with food for two. Mesut ate when prompted and listened to Iker speak of David, of his strength and his loyalty, his courage and his character and the kindness in his smile.

"How did he die?" Mesut asked one day.

"By my hand," Iker replied. He picked up his cup, then set it down again. His knuckles were white. "I went after him myself. At least I could make sure that it was over quickly, without much suffering."

"You say that like it's nothing."

"It's an old story. I've told it many times."

"And it's a lie."

Iker crossed his arms, sitting back in his chair. His voice was calm. "I could not let him go."

"I know. That's why I think you're lying."

Iker didn't grow angry with him, strangely enough, but his smile didn't reach his eyes as he explained, once again, that David had been very important to him, that he had been a great warrior. Loyal, courageous, and strong.

"Not unlike your guard," said Iker.

Days went by. Mesut kept his green vest bundled beside his pillow, fell asleep each night with one hand pressed against that silken fabric. Sometimes, he dreamed. Other times, he wondered who could save him now. His father would not ransom him. He would die here, in these halls.

So the stars hadn't really lied. They'd only been inaccurate. Forgetful. But who could blame them, when they had so many mortal lives to measure and decide?

.

_The prince mourned his fate, praying nightly for deliverance, but each morning he opened his eyes to the same stone walls that had confined him when he slipped into the depths of dreams. So the moon waned in the sky, and two days short of a fortnight in captivity, the prince woke to a voice calling him in the dark..._

.

He dreamed. He dreamed of windy seas and a beautiful stream-fed valley blooming with life. In the dream, Sami walked beside him, grasping his hand firmly as they waded knee-deep into a clear pool reflecting light. 

"Don't let go," someone called. Iker was standing on the blossoming shore, waving to them. 

He called again, "You can't let him go," and Sami's grip tightened on his wrist, pressing hard enough to bruise—

"Mesut."

The pressure on his wrist didn't let up. He opened his eyes to a voice calling his name,

"Mesut, wake up."

A faint outline of a silhouette in the darkness—someone was kneeling beside the bed. He bolted upright, wrenching his hands away. The shadowy figure let him go. 

"It's me," the voice said again, "my prince. It's me."

He knew that voice. He knew—and for a moment his heart stuttered and forgot its rhythm. He reached out with trembling hands to trace the contours of that familiar face. The edge of his jaw, the stubble on his cheek. The dark hair soft beneath his fingertips. 

"Sami," he breathed. " _Sami._ "

Strong arms enfolded him in a crushing embrace. Mesut pressed his face into the curve of Sami's neck.

"I thought you were dead," he whispered. "They said— How did you—"

Sami's laugh ruffled his hair. "I swore to protect you, didn't I? I couldn't die yet." He extricated himself from Mesut's arms. "There's no time to explain now. Let's get you out of here."

The hallway, lit with torches, blinded Mesut for a moment. When his vision focused again, he saw the two guards slumped by the door. Blood pooled on the ground beneath them. Sami motioned for Mesut to follow him. 

The twisting passages were bewildering, but Sami seemed sure of the way. They ducked down a dim hallway, found a flight of stairs behind a woven tapestry, and emerged in a garden overgrown with brambles and weeds. Mesut looked up, blinking. The stars were muted tonight. A faint crescent moon drifted high above the mist.

Suddenly, a bell sounded deep within the towered palace, followed by a clamor of shouts and the drumming of running feet. 

"Guess they've discovered the guards," said Sami. He squeezed Mesut's hand. "Come on!"

They skirted the thorny bushes and climbed over a low wall into rows of fruit-bearing trees. Sami lead the way. The shadows of slender branches criss-crossed the moonlight illuminating their path. At last they came to a high crenelated wall: the castle perimeter. 

Mesut followed Sami, walking in the shadow of the battlements, until they came to a section where the stoned crawled with clinging ivy. The fruit trees grew right up to where the wall began. 

"A king should treat his gardeners better," Sami murmured. "Then he wouldn't have to worry about _this_."

He pulled at the ivy; it came away easily under his hands to reveal an old wooden door. Mesut looked again and saw that the vines had already been cut. Sami had planned this well. 

Beyond the door was a sloping tunnel that passed straight through the thick stone wall. They had no torch, so Mesut grasped Sami's wrist to keep his bearings in the dark. The blackness lightened as they approached the end of the tunnel. Mesut could hear the voice of the river in the distance, even over the bell that continued to toll its warning into the night. 

They stepped into the open air amidst a tumble of rocks behind the castle. Mesut let out a slow breath. The night was dark enough to shadow them from watching eyes. Twisted shrubs dotted the landscape beyond, melding into a young forest farther upstream. 

"We just have to get to the cover of the trees," Sami whispered. "It's not far, just—"

A horse snorted so close by that Mesut jumped. Sami drew his sword. A shadow peeled away from the rocks and resolved itself into the figure of a man; Mesut caught a glimpse of white-gloved hands.

Sami pushed Mesut back.

"You are brave, young warrior," said a familiar voice. "Reckless, even. But did you really think you'd escape so easily?"

"Iker—"

Mesut felt Sami tense as Iker held up his hands—empty. 

"I mean you no harm," said the captain of the king's own guard. 

He whistled softly. A sleek-coated gelding stepped forward, its hooves clicking softly against the rocky ground. Iker gathered the reins in his hands. 

"Ride northeast," he told them. "On foot, you'll be stopped. On horseback, you might pass for a messenger or search party."

"Why are you helping us?" Sami demanded. He hadn't lowered his sword.

Iker caught Mesut's eyes. A faint smile shadowed the curve of his lips. 

"Not out of treachery, but admiration," he said, urging the horse toward them as he himself stepped back. "Go in peace, strangers. Go quickly."

.

The gelding was a strong runner and bore the both of them with ease. They cleared the city's outlying villages under the cover of darkness, picked their way through patches of thickly-grown forest to reach the river's sloping banks. The horse ran easily over the even ground, and they followed the river inland. 

All the roads to the sea must be swarming with the king's soldiers, Sami said. Every port and dock would be alerted to their escape. Their only option was to go north until they cleared Tartessos' wide arm, then double back to the southern coast with its friendlier settlements. From there, they could find a ship to bear them home. 

_Home,_ Mesut thought to himself. He tightened his arms around Sami's waist. The river was an ever-present roar on their left-hand side, flowing dark and broad in the misty night.

Slowly, the sky in the east lightened from black to pale blue-grey. Sami turned them back toward the shadowy trees, and the gelding slowed its pace, picking its way over an uneven trail. The first rays of dawn broke pink on the horizon.

"Feeling up to walking?" Sami asked. Mesut nodded, and Sami helped him dismount. Mesut thought about protesting—he was a fine horseman in his own right—but thought better of it. Sami's hands were calloused and warm, covering his own.

He lead the horse by its reins while Sami walked ahead. 

"We'll be safer on the other side of the river," Mesut said eventually. "It's in the opposite direction of where they expect us to go. We can find a place to cross, then take a rest."

Sami looked over his shoulder. "There should be a ford not too far off. Pray that the horse isn't afraid of water." 

The gelding snorted, as if it understood Sami's words. Mesut patted its neck.

They arrived at the ford not long after. A small cairn marked the spot where the river slowed, visibly broadened until it grew shallow enough for hunters and oxen—or two fugitives and a weary horse—to cross.

Sami motioned for them to stop, well within the relative cover of the forest, while he went ahead to check that the coast was clear. A goat track led up to the ford and away again on the other side. The river banks were littered with gravel. It must have been a dry summer, Mesut observed; much of the gravel bed was exposed to the open air.

Just as the gelding began to stamp its hoof in impatience, Sami motioned for them to follow. He unsaddled the horse, hoisting the tack over his shoulder and urging the animal ahead. The gelding was well-trained, thankfully, and took to the water willingly enough.

Mesut took the saddlebags and waded in after Sami. He bit his tongue to muffle the hiss that tried to escape his lips. Dry summer or not, the water still came up to his waist—and it was _cold_.

The gelding splashed out of the water first, ambling a bit upstream to where the river flowed clearer, and lowered its head to drink. Sami reached the farther bank just in time to be splattered with droplets as the horse shook itself dry. Mesut pulled himself out of the water, teeth chattering from the cold. His legs felt bitten numb.

"We need to keep moving," Sami said as he tightened the saddle girth, while the horse stretched its neck to reach a patch of grass growing on the edge of the gravel bed. "Find somewhere safer, maybe rest there for a while."

Mesut nodded. His legs ached, and his back, but they couldn't stop just yet. Rummaging around in the saddlebags, he found a waterskin along with a bag of oats and some apples.

"It could be poisoned," Sami said.

Mesut shook his head. "Iker isn't that kind of man." 

The water was cool on his tongue. He passed the waterskin to Sami and offered the horse a handful of grain, along with one of the apples. The gelding ate both and licked his hand for more. 

Sami took the reins. "Let's go," he said, and turned toward the path. Mesut followed.

The sloping bank lead up to a beaten track through the woods, which began to thin rapidly as they continued north and east. They were coming upon the foothills; a mountain range loomed indigo in the distance, shadowed by clouds. The forest gave way to twisted shrubbery, and the path wound between outcroppings of bare grey rock. 

"It's too open here," Mesut murmured.

Sami didn't respond. The sound of hoofbeats clattered into the silence. Moments later, a pair of riders rounded a bend in the road. Their horses were matching white, and Mesut recognized the blue and gold pattern on their cloaks. 

"Get on the horse," Sami said, very softly. "Now."

It was all too familiar; Mesut's hands tightened into fists. "I fight better on foot," he countered. "And I'm not leaving you again."

"Wrong time to be stubborn, my prince." Sami's eyes didn't leave the approaching horsemen. "Get on, or I'm throwing you over the saddle."

"Sami—"

" _Now_ , Mesut. Please."

The riders had slowed their pace, spotting them. It seemed they hadn't been recognized yet, however. Mesut swung himself into the saddle. The horse shifted nervously beneath him, sensing his anxiety. He forced himself to feign calm.

"Run if you can," Sami said. He handed the reins to Mesut. "Or else stay here and don't do anything stupid."

 _Too late for that,_ Mesut wanted to tell him. But that was neither here nor there, so he held his tongue. 

Sami walked ahead to meet the riders, forcing them to come to a stop a good twenty paces from Mesut. One of the king's soldiers hefted a curved bow in his hands, and Mesut watched as he leaned down to speak to Sami.

What happened next was almost too fast to follow. One moment, Sami had his hands spread in a gesture of peace—the next, his sword was gleaming in the noon-bright sun. Crimson blossomed over the white stallion's coat, the saddle girth sliced in two. The horse shrieked and threw its rider.

The second rider drew his sword. Sami sprang onto the bleeding horse's back, barely in time to parry the first swing aimed at his head. The stallion reared, trampling its own rider underfoot. Mesut watched as Sami blocked another blow, then immediately went on the attack. The king's soldier was no match for Sami, and they both knew it. The man tried a feint, looking for space to break and run. Sami cut him off. 

The sound of steel clashing on steel made the gelding snort and strain against its bit, shifting nervously, ears flattened against its skull. Mesut dismounted and tied its reins to a twisted bush, as best he could. He wasn't running, not while Sami was still fighting. 

He turned back just in time to see the blue-cloaked rider swing low—at the stallion. Blood darkened its neck, and its legs crumpled.

Mesut was running before the animal hit the ground, scrambling up to the trampled corpse of the first rider. He pried the bow from the dead man's hands. The quiver, he found scattered on the ground nearby.

He nocked an arrow. The other soldier had kicked his horse into a gallop, escape his only apparent thought—but not fast enough. Mesut aimed. The first arrow pierced the blue-dyed cloak, and the second bit into the mount's white throat. Horse and rider went down in a cloud of dust.

For a moment, there was absolute silence. Mesut breathed. He had killed a man. He had _killed_ a _man_. His heart hammered in his ribcage as the bow clattered from his hands.

Then he heard a noise—someone calling his name—

Sami was on the ground, immobile. His leg had been caught under the horse when it fell, and his face was ashen, tight with pain. 

Mesut was at his side in an instant, heaving at the animal's dead weight. Sweat broke out along his brow; sweat slicked his hands. He wiped it off on his shirt, pushed at the carcass with all his strength until it shifted just enough for Sami to free his leg.

Mesut dropped to his knees on the blood-stained ground. Sami's shirt was ripped at the shoulder, the cloth now an even darker shade of black. "You're bleeding. Are you—"

Sami shook his head. "It happens," he said through clenched teeth. "I'll be fine. Get the horse."

"Your leg—"

"I'll be fine. We have to get out of here."

The gelding shied away from the corpses but didn't balk. It must be as tired as they were, Mesut thought. They hadn't stopped since they escaped the palace, in the middle of a night that now seemed eons ago. The midday sun was bright overhead. 

Mesut bound up Sami's shoulder with a strip of cloth torn from his shirt. He forced Sami to sit still a moment longer and drink from the waterskin. Sami's face was still pale, and his makeshift bandage was already darkening with blood.

"Are you sure—" Mesut began.

"Yes," Sami said firmly. "You take the reins. I'll ride behind."

"Let me look at your leg first. Bind it up."

Sami shook him off and pulled himself to his feet, holding onto the stirrups, the saddle, whatever was within reach. "We can't waste the time," he said. "Those two were probably on their own, and we're pretty far out in the country, but we can't be sure. We have to go."

Sami mounted using his good leg. "It's fine," he insisted again, but Mesut could see the white tension in his knuckles. His hands were clenched, his jaw tight with holding back the agony. Mesut urged the gelding to a walk—"We can't waste time," Sami hissed—then faster, into a brisk trot. The gelding's pace was smooth, but the ground was uneven, and Mesut felt every jostle and bump as if the broken leg were his own.

The shadows in the distance resolved into thunderheads as the afternoon wore on. They followed the path until they found a faint goat track. Follow the least-used way, Sami murmured against his ear. Sami's breathing was riddled with hitches, his body giving itself away with small tremors of pain. Clouds raced across the face of the sun. The sky grew dark. 

The gelding's pace slowed until finally, it stumbled while descending a rocky incline and nearly threw both of them. Mesut jumped off. The horse's sides were heaving, its pupils blown as it stood there, unmoving. It couldn't go on. _They_ couldn't.

"We have to stop." Mesut looped an arm around Sami's waist, half-pulling half-helping him from the saddle. "Come on. There's no point, pushing on like this."

Sami didn't protest, though he flinched visibly when his bad foot made contact with the ground. "The storm's coming," he said.

Mesut spotted a tumble of rocks at the foot of the hill. "We'll wait out the storm."

"The horse—"

"The horse can wait." 

Mesut draped Sami's arm over his shoulder and helped him to their meager shelter. Coaxing the gelding to follow was more of a challenge, but he eventually got them all down to the rocky overhang. Mesut folded himself in beside Sami, careful to avoid his wounded side. The horse lay down in front of them. Its bulk would provide some buffer against the storm now rolling in overhead. 

"Keep going east," Sami murmured into the muggy silence. "That's where you should go. Head toward the mountains. At the next village, the next shepherd you see, ask for directions to Carteia. When you get to the seaport, ask for Zidane. He'll look after you. Or, if your father's men will have reached these coasts, they'll find you. You'll be fine as long as you don't do anything stupid."

 _You_ , not _we_. Mesut breathed around the tightness in his chest. "You can make sure of that yourself," he told Sami, "when we get there."

"I can't look after you forever."

"Then you better try harder."

Sami laughed, but the sound was cut short by a grunt of pain. Mesut reached for the bandage at his shoulder. 

"Leave it." Sami pushed his hands away. "You'll only make it worse."

Mesut passed him the waterskin, watched the way Sami's jaw worked as he drank. Sweat beaded on his brow. Mesut threaded his arm around Sami's elbow, pressing close. Sami let him when Mesut reached for his hand; his skin was cold to the touch. 

"You need to sleep," said Mesut. "I can—"

"I can tell you how I escaped those pirates," Sami cut him off. "You wanted to know, right? So I'll tell you."

"You can tell me after you've rested."

"There might not be time," said Sami. Mesut tightened his grip on Sami's hand; Sami squeezed back. "It'll be too loud, I mean. Once the storm breaks. But we have a little time now."

Mesut closed his eyes. "Tell me, then. Tell me everything."

.

_Fourteen days earlier..._

Leo had always been quiet, quick-footed as a kitten, but he wasn't good enough yet to sneak up on Gerard unnoticed. Gerard let him think he might have a chance, though, and didn't let on until Leo was right behind him.

"You should be in bed," he said, turning around and catching Leo mid-step. He grinned at the sheepish look on Leo's face. "You have to be better than that, you know. I could hear you coming a mile away."

"Could not, you liar." 

Gerard nodded for the younger man—he still looked like a boy, really—to come stand beside him on the upper deck. Leo leaned on the railing, resting his head on his arms. The errant wind ruffled his hair, and Gerard resisted the urge to do the same.

"What are you doing up this early?" He knew that Sergio had the next watch after him, so that could hardly be Leo's reason for sneaking up on him at this hour of the day. Dawn was a dusty hint of pink on the horizon.

Leo shrugged. "Couldn't sleep. I was thinking."

"What for?"

"The captives." Leo scuffed his foot against the planks. "What's the captain going to do? He promised not to kill the fighter, but if we bring him back to Del Bosque..."

"Be easier to just kill him now," Gerard said. "Captain's a man of his word and all, but it's not like we can just drop him off somewhere and hope for the best. I've seen his type. He's dangerous. Like as not, he'll track us down—and bring a whole damn army while he's at it."

"He's loyal," said Leo. "Is it wrong to respect that?"

"It's not practical."

Leo was silent. They watched the sky lighten from blue to pink, Leo's arms draped over the railing and Gerard watching the wind in his hair. 

"But still," Leo began. He picked at the cuff of his sleeves. "The captain gave his word. And I'd've done the same, if I was that prince. They're brave men, both."

Before Gerard could formulate a response to that, Xavi's voice sounded on the quarterdeck, calling everyone to gather. Captain's orders. Leo turned his head, then turned back, a question in his eyes.

Gerard shook his head. "And we'd do the same for you, Leo. Which is why I don't think the captain should be letting the fighter live." He shrugged. "Anyway, it's not up to us. Here comes the captain. Look sharp."

Leo looked as if he wanted to say more, but Xavi called again, louder this time. Gerard nodded at him to go. Leo scampered off to join the rest of the crew on the main deck. 

Andres and Victor were bringing the captive up from the hold. The fighter, not the prince, who, Leo assumed, was still in the captain's quarters. Unconscious, most likely. Pep's potion—the one they'd used to knock him out—was strong enough to take out a bull. Or at least, that's what Gerard liked to tell him.

They hadn't used it on the fighter, though, and Victor and Andres were having an interesting time dragging him onto the deck. Despite the fact that the man was hobbled like a sacrificial lamb, he still fought them every step of the way.

Leo stood beside Bojan, who edged back slightly as Andres and Victor finally managed to dump their captive in front of the captain. Leo saw the captain nod to Xavi. The first mate stepped forward and cut the captive's bonds. Bojan muttered something that might have been a prayer, or simply a curse.

The captive man stood up slowly. He stumbled a bit, his legs unsteady on the rolling deck. He was favoring his left leg, Leo noticed. Maybe it was broken. It was hard to tell, with all the cuts and bloody stains covering the man's clothing. It was a wonder that he still had this strength—this _fight_ —left in him. Leo could see it in his eyes, the set of his shoulders and his jaw.

The captain tossed a sword before him. "A choice, stranger," he said, in the trade tongue. "Fight me, and die an honorable man, or try the sea's mercies. I promised your prince. I won't spill your blood dishonorably."

The other man said nothing for a long moment. Then, "How do you know you can beat me in a fair fight?"

A startled murmur rippled amongst the crew, along with a few disbelieving chuckles. The captain remained unsmiling.

"Then you'll fight my first mate, after me," he answered. "Then Andres, then Pedro, then my whole crew. You can't win."

"You'd have more luck with the sea," said Xavi, and the crew laughed again.

"I'll find you." The captive man's eyes never left the captain. "You'll regret the day you laid hands on him."

"I'm sure." The captain's expression was unreadable. "Throw him overboard," he said to Xavi. "And the rest of you, get back to work. We'll make port by sundown."

Leo trailed Victor up to the helm, glancing back furtively to catch a last glimpse of the captive. Victor cuffed him lightly. 

"Don't look too hard at a dead man," he advised. "You'll get nightmares. Go take those barrels down to the hold, would you? Don't want things getting underfoot."

The shout went up a moment later: "Man overboard! Wish him luck, boys!"

Leo ran to the railing. There was a dark shape in the water, swiftly receding in the ship's white-foamed wake. So that was it, then. And yet it seemed wrong. 

His foot knocked against on the barrels—empty. 

Glancing around to make sure no one was watching him, Leo grabbed the empty casket and tipped it overboard.

"Good luck," he whispered, watching the barrel bob between the waves.

"Leo."

The captain was standing there when he turned around. Leo swallowed. He opened his mouth to explain, trying to think of an excuse. The barrel was loose. It slipped from his hands. He hadn't meant to.

But the captain just said, "Take Sergio's watch at lookout. I need him helping Andres. And Leo?"

Leo paused mid-step, trying not to seem like he was running away. "Sir?"

"Don't ever do that again. Understand?"

Leo ducked his head. "Yes, captain."

"Hey, you." Gerard grinned when Leo snuck up behind him again—or tried, rather. "Where's Sergio?"

"With Andres," said Leo. "I'm taking his watch."

Gerard stretched his arms. He glanced at Leo. "You think he'll make it?"

"Maybe," said Leo, scanning the horizon. "If that's his fate."

.

The pirates were in the service of Tartessos, the kingdom to the west—he could tell that much, at least, from their accents, their weapons, and the colors of the flag that flew from the mast. More difficult to tell was how far he was from Tartessian lands. Or any land at all, for that matter. 

He swam after the ship for as long as he could, clinging to the barrel for support, then drifted when his legs grew too heavy to continue. Salt water bit into the cuts crisscrossing his skin until he was numb. The sun beat down on his head, merciless; when it set, the waters grew frigid. A wind picked up in the night, and he spent his strength simply holding on, his arms locked around the barrel's girth. 

Around dawn, he thought he saw a smudge of land on the horizon. His vision was growing blurry, his head fuzzy from the sun and the wind and the thirst burning in his throat and his lungs. The current bore him steadily toward the dark horizon, and as the sun climbed high into the sky, the second morning, he washed up on a grey pebbled shore. 

It was a fisherman's wife who found him, sometime later, when she came down to the beach to gather driftwood. She took one look at him and ran back up the path, shouting for help. 

He could understand her, Sami thought faintly. He could understand. Which was good. Because that meant this was a friendly settlement—though the man that the woman brought back looked anything but.

That was the last thing he remembered before he blacked out. 

It was dark when he woke again. It took long moments to orient himself, realize that he was lying down, and it was dark because he was indoors. A smoky fire burned on a hearth beside him, and beside the hearth sat the stone-faced man from before. He was perched on a low stool, a pipe in his hands, watching him.

Sami sat up slowly. His head was spinning, his throat burned, and his mouth felt like a desert in summer. The other man held out a cup. Sami stared for a moment, his brain needing longer than usual to catch up. He took the cup with shaky hands and managed to get most of the water into his mouth rather than down the front of his shirt. The man passed him a bowl next, some sort of fish stew, which Sami hardly tasted; it was hot, and it was food, and right now, that was enough. 

When he was done, a woman came in and gathered up the bowl and the cup. The woman from before—more of a girl, really: bright-eyed, fair-haired, and brown as a nut from the sea and the sun. She gave Sami a curious look before scurrying outside again with the crockery.

The older man remained where he was, puffing a tendril of smoke and watching Sami with wary eyes. Sami shifted his legs, sat up straighter, and waited for him to speak first. 

Finally the man asked, "Where'd you come from, stranger?"

Sami started—not at the question, but at the language it was spoken in. He had recognized their speech earlier, barely conscious as he'd been, but it wasn't until now that he realized they weren't speaking the high tongue of the king's court. This was a local dialect, one he'd learned growing up in the western villages.

So this wasn't one of the king's settlements. He was closer to Tartessos, but farther from help.

"You understand what I'm saying?" the man demanded. "Who are you?"

"I'm," Sami started. He cleared his throat. "An unlucky traveler," he said haltingly. He hadn't spoken this dialect since he left his father, left Rani and everything behind. "My ship, we met a storm out at sea. I fell overboard, and God's grace brought me here to your kindness."

The long-haired girl had returned while he was speaking. She knelt by the hearth and listened silently, one hand resting over her lap. Sami noticed that her stomach was beginning to swell with the evidence of a child. 

"Where you headed?"

"Tartessos. I can meet my family there again, if you know any ships going that way."

The man grunted. "It's not far. But every ship passing this way is mercenary or merchant, and they charge heavy prices for passage. " He stood up. "I need to check the nets. Tati here can look after you until I get back."

He left Sami with the girl, who gave him a toothy smile. 

"Don't mind uncle Zizou," she said. "Zidane to you, I guess. Like I said, don't mind. He's got no ill will toward you, though he's a funny way of showing it sometimes."

"I'm grateful for your kindness."

She smiled again and rested a hand over her stomach. "My father died at sea weeks before I was born. And now my husband, he's gone with a ship to trade in the northern lands. It's a long journey." Her eyes were gentle. "You have God's favor, stranger. It's no bad thing to have you in our house."

"My name's Sami," he murmured, for lack of anything else to say.

"I'm Tatiana," she replied, smoothing her apron as she stood up. "Get some rest. I'll be close by if you need anything."

Sami stared at the smoldering hearth as she stepped outside. They were good folk, he thought, but his heart was still uneasy. He was nowhere near his prince—Mesut was still captive, in the hands of pirates working for a hostile king—and here he was, stranded in a fisherman's hut with a cough in his lungs and pain restricting even the simplest of movements: aches, bruises, a thousand cuts scabbing over with dirt and sand. 

He slowly pulled himself to his feet, using the wall for support. It took more effort than he would've liked to admit to stumble his way to the door. Tati was stacking firewood outside, humming quietly to herself as the afternoon sun burned hot in the west. The smell of the salt sea was in the air; he could see the outline of sails just off the coast. 

She looked up at the sound of his footsteps. "You should rest."

"I need water," Sami said, "and cloth, if you can spare it."

Her eyes flickered from his face to his tattered clothing, his skin streaked with cuts and discolored blood. She nodded. "Wait here. Can you walk?"

She ducked past him even as he answered, "Yes, probably," and re-emerged moments later with a bundle of rags under her arms. 

"Good." A smile quirked the corner of her mouth. "I'd hate to have to drag you. Come on."

She lead him to the stream that supplied their freshwater, walking slowly and helping him over the rockier parts of the path. Sami noticed a few other trails on the way, and Tati explained that those lead mostly to the village, situated upstream by the pond. The stream down here was rocky but clear. 

Tati put down her rag bundle on a smooth boulder edging the water. "Sit down and let me see your wounds," she ordered. When Sami hesitated, she set her hands on her hips. "What? Scared of a woman?"

"It's," Sami began. Inappropriate. Awkward. "I can do this myself."

"You're barely standing on your own," she retorted. Then her eyes grew soft. "No sense in pretending to be stronger than you are. I learned some medicine from my mother. Come here."

Sami pulled off his ragged boots and walked over to where she waited. In the rags she had wrapped a jar of ointment and a handful of sweet-smelling herbs. Sami sat by the water, carefully separating the salt-stiff cloth from his skin. He set his shirt in the stream to soak, a rock holding it in place. 

"You're worse than my husband," Tati murmured, handing him a rag. "A dead man isn't strong, you know. He's no good to anyone."

Sami said nothing, examining the bruises decorating his shin. Tati cleaned the long cut above his shoulderblade while he washed the blood and dirt from his arms and legs.

"A coward is no use either," he said eventually. "You wouldn't want that kind of a man for a husband."

"My husband isn't a coward." Tati wrung out the bloodied rag and set it aside. "He's a great swordsman, and a sailor. Every year, he goes to the tournament, in the port city. He'll miss it this year, being away, but he's won it many times."

"When's this tournament?"

"Five days from now." Tati wrapped up the herbs in a long strip of cloth, dipped the bundle in the stream, and squeezed out the water over the worst of his wounds. It stung, but no worse than the sea had. "Thinking of proving yourself?"

"I know a trick or two with the sword."

Tati snorted. "You'll have to be able to walk first, if they're to do you any good." 

"I'll need to find some way to pay my passage to Tartessos."

Her hands were gentle as she rubbed the ointment into his skin. "You will," she agreed. "But there are other ways to find your way back to your family. You can stay with us a while if you need."

"I don't have the time."

"What's the hurry?"

Sami stared at the trickling waters of the stream. "There's someone. It's important." 

Tati waited for him to explain further, but he said nothing more. She sighed softly, "Well, then," and bound up his shoulder and leg with clean strips of cloth.

It was growing dark. Tati bundled up his shirt with the rest, offering him a spare change of clothes she had brought with her. The tunic was a bit large on him. Sami slipped on his boots and followed her back to the seaside hut. Her uncle was standing by the door smoking his pipe. He spared Sami a glance before turning to Tati.

"I'm going out early tomorrow," he said. "Make sure this one doesn't get into any trouble."

Tati laughed. "You look after yourself first, uncle." She pecked his cheek affectionately. "I'm going to go hang these things up."

"I don't know how to repay your kindness," Sami said to the older man, after she had disappeared around the other side of the house. "If there is anything—"

The other man waved him inside. "Get yourself well and back on your way again, stranger. That's all I'd ask you for. That, and keep quiet when I'm sleeping." He leaned against the door frame, smoking his pipe. "Go on. Sun's already set."

His pallet was thin, but the hearth was warm with embers. Sami lay down and watched the silhouette of the old man at the door, wondering... Fatigue soon overtook his thoughts. Within moments, he was asleep.

.

The next morning, he woke to the sound of Tati humming to herself as she stirred a pot over the hearth. She smiled when he came and sat carefully beside her, warming his hands by the fire. Autumn was in the air, judging by the chill.

"Uncle won't be back until late," she said, setting a cup of hot broth before him. "I'm going to the village. You just stay here and get your strength back."

Sami blew on the cup. "I can go with you," he said, taking a sip. The liquid burned his tongue.

Tati shook her head. "People will talk, if they see a stranger, and uncle doesn't want any trouble." She glanced at the bandage on his leg. Sami knew his traveler story had been flimsy at best; he could only guess as to why they were letting him get away with it.

"Why do you live so far from the village?" he asked.

Lifting the pot from the cooking fire, Tati covered it with a lid and set it aside. She brushed at a handful of ash on the floor. 

"My house is in the village square," she said. "Uncle lives here because he likes the sea. He served as a sailor when he was younger, and he's hung up his sword, but I guess he couldn't give up a last reminder of it all." She shrugged. "With my husband journeying, and his wife gone, I help out as I can. It's safer here for me than alone in the village."

Sami finished his food in silence. Tati gathered everything when he was done and went outside to wash the things in a bucket of water by the door. He followed her, limping only slightly. 

"The port city," he said to her crouched back. "Is it far? You said there's a tournament there in five days."

"Four days now." She gave him a sharp look. "You're not well enough to fight, so put that notion out of your head. All you'll do is get yourself killed."

"You don't know that."

Tati dried her hands on her apron. "I don't know who you really are, stranger," she said softly, "but I know that a man in your condition fights only if he plans to die."

She turned away to take the bowls back inside. He stayed by the door, watching the morning sky with its windswept clouds. If he focused hard enough on other things, he knew, his shoulder wouldn't hurt quite so badly. Tati left for the village not long after, telling him only to stay close to the house, there was food in the cooking pot, and she would be back before sunset. 

He walked to the stream and back, several times, fetching water to fill up the rain barrel behind the house. The bucket was heavy in his arms, but his legs were steadier than they'd been yesterday. 

Tati came back late in the afternoon. She pursed her lips when she discovered what he'd been up to, but didn't scold him. Instead, she handed over a jar of medicinal balm and told him to change his bandages while she cooked supper. Sundown saw her uncle walking up the path from the shore, a canvas pack perched on his shoulders. He spoke little while they ate, smoked a pipe and headed straight to bed.

Two days went by. Sami continued to fetch water despite Tati's disapproving glares. She informed him that he was undoing all her work. He gave up trying to convince her that he was fine. He had to be fine, because— He had to. The strength was returning to his arms, and as long as he ignored the pain, it went away.

That evening, Tati's uncle watched him over a supper of stewed shellfish, his eyes sharp in the dusky light of the fire. Sami glanced to Tati for an explanation, but she sat with her gaze fixed on her food, ignoring the both of them.

"In a few days," her uncle said, "you'll be wanting to find a ship going east, I expect. The port's not far: a morning's journey by boat, or a day's walk over land."

Sami nodded. "I don't know how I'll repay all your kindness."

"I'd worry more about how you'd pay your passage to Tartessos."

"The tournament," Sami began.

Tati set down her bowl with a clatter. She stood up, excusing herself, murmuring something about the water and needing to check on the wood. The door scraped after her, letting in a cool draft of evening air. Her uncle continued to eat his meal, seemingly unfazed.

"She didn't take too well to your idea," he said after a moment. "But it's not her business, so don't mind her."

Sami rubbed his shoulder absently. "I hate to trouble her."

"She's lonely for Samir, is all." At his puzzled look, the other man shrugged. "Her husband. He's nothing like you, but she's young, and she misses him. It's hard on her. Hard on anyone, being alone."

The thought came unbidden, in an all-too-familiar voice: _Because it's the same, with everyone._ Sami felt his throat closing painfully as he tried to swallow his food. 

The other man's eyes were piercing, but not unkind. "I can take you down to the port myself if you need," he said. "Set you up with some lodgings, too. I have friends there."

Sami nodded—then the words registered. "Lodgings?"

"It's a two-day tournament." 

He went back to his stew. Tati came back then with a small pot that she set to warm over the fire. Sami watched her from the corner of his eye, but she said nothing, and they continued to ate in silence. Afterwards, she poured out cups of strong herbal tea, while her uncle lit up his pipe.

"You're not well enough yet, you know," she said softly when she handed Sami his cup.

"Let him be, Tati. He'll do what he thinks is right."

"Well, he's not right, so he shouldn't do anything!" She rounded on her uncle. "And you shouldn't encourage him. He's going to be no match for anyone. It's a fool's dream."

"I'll be the one to judge his skills," said Zidane, "not you. And if I say he is, then he is, so we'll go to Carteia tomorrow afternoon. You pack some things and get ready. We'll be there for a few days."

.

"Show me what you know," Zidane said the next morning, handing an old sword to Sami. The blade was a stern, weighty thing whose imperfections told of its history. It had been kept in good condition, and sat comfortably in Sami's hands. 

Zidane stood by the door of the hut while Sami went through his forms—again, again, faster—until he was satisfied. His shoulder ached and his leg hampered his movement, but his will was stronger than the limitations of his body. He could still fight. He had no choice _but_ to fight.

They sailed for the port city in Zidane's little fishing boat, staying within sight of the shore. Tati wouldn't speak to either of them during the voyage, her face resolute, one hand over her rounded stomach. Sami sat beside her with the sword in his lap. Though it was autumn, his thoughts returned only to wildflowers and blossoming pomegranate trees. When he half-closed his eyes, the color of the waves was green on white. 

No one in his right mind would do this, he knew. But to have, and have lost—it would be enough to take any man to his level of madness now. 

.

Carteia was a bustle of noise and scents and sights. Ships swayed in the lapping waves of the harbor while traders and artisans, patrons and clients, farmers and wives and all manner of folk went about their daily business. 

On this particular day, a large crowd had gathered at the central square for the city's annual tournament: an event that drew mercenaries and noblemen alike. The talk of the town these past years had been a young man named Samir, but the town gossips having learned that he was away on a journey, it was anyone's guess as to who would take home the prize—and the honor—today.

They listened eagerly as each contestant announced himself. The son of a nobleman from Gadir. A retired soldier from Malaca. Two mercenaries recently arrived from Saguntum's plains. Half a dozen young men born and raised in Carteia itself. 

A dark-haired man was the last to step forward. He disguised it well, but perceptive eyes in the crowd picked out the slight limp in his step, and jeers rang out. Careful, boy, don't lose it before you've even begun. If you're needing potions, apothecary's just down the street. Think you can walk that far? Poor fool. What ship stranded you here?

The rollkeeper waved him closer. "Your name and family, stranger?"

"Sami," the strange man replied, his gaze steady as his voice. He stood tall, and a murmuring hush fell at the sound of his voice. "I come from Tunes, across the sea."

He fought in the first bout of the day. His opponent, one of the mercenaries, entered the ring with a easy smile and an easier hold on the monstrous broadsword that was his weapon. His chainmail glittered in the mid-day sun. The man from Tunes had no armor, only a yellow ribbon that a girl—I'll be damned, whispered a seamstress to her neighbor, but if that isn't Samir's wife!—fastened around his arm as a token of luck. 

The merc will be kind to spare his life, someone murmured in the crowd. What a fool. This will be over in moments.

And indeed it was. A clash of swords, lightning reflexes—and the mercenary was down, with the point of the young man's sword at his neck. Stunned, he slowly raised his hands, palm-upward, in surrender. He was allowed to stand, stumble out of the ring with his eyes cast upon the ground. 

"Sami!" cried a jubilant voice, and the crowd took it up, chanting the syllables of his name. Sami, Sami of Tunes! Forgotten were their doubts, their initial derision and skepticism. Here was a man of skill, a man they would not be ashamed to call their champion.

The sun crossed the sky in its rolling course, and its yellow light matched the color of the dust rising from the ground, the ribbon bright against the rough linen of Sami's tunic. The roar of the crowd followed his every move. He received his share of wounds—a gash on his arm, his knee, the nobleman's dagger slicing a thin line across his cheek—but he remained undefeated. None came even close. 

The day ended with two contestants still standing: Sami, and the soldier from Malaca. The final match would be held in the morning. Now the crowd dispersed, each to his own home, and more than a few gossips' eyes saw how Samir's wife embraced the man from Tunes, unabashed with her affection. They saw her go with him to the inn, walk through the tavern amidst a chorus of catcalls and cheers, before the innkeeper showed them upstairs to their lodging.

.

"Stay a few days longer and you'll have every girl in town swooning after you," Tati said as she wrung out the linen cloth and handed it back to Sami.

He dabbed at the cut on his cheek, grimacing. "All the more reason to get out of here as fast as I can."

"You're a strange one, Sami of Tunes."

"Your people are the strange ones, I'd say."

"Why?" Tati tore a strip of cloth to bind up Sami's leg. "Strange for admiring a worthy man? Either you think too little of yourself, or nothing at all of us. I hope it's not the latter. Hold still." 

Sami gripped the edges of his stool, biting back a grunt of pain as she tied off the bandage. "I'd say you were trying to teach me a lesson, if I didn't know better."

"Only lesson I want you to learn is how to not kill yourself. You've not healed from the last set of wounds, and now this." She rose to her feet and began to clear away the ointments and the rags, putting the washbasin aside for later. The frustration was plain in her voice, "What's so important about Tartessos, anyway, that you have to keep tempting fate?"

"There's someone very important to me," said Sami. He searched for the words, but there were none. How could he explain to her what he barely understood himself? "This, all of this. It's why. I just have to."

Tati hugged her arms around herself, not looking at him. "Is she beautiful, your someone? Beautiful enough to die for?"

Sami laughed softly. "A thousand times over."

Her footsteps drew near, a small hand reaching out to cup his cheek. He looked up into her wistful eyes.

"And how much do you suppose she would curse her beauty," Tati said, "if you went and died in her name? It's selfish of you."

He could smell the lingering sharpness of herbs and soap on her hands. "You don't understand."

"No," she murmured, "it's you who doesn't understand."

She was so close he could see the individual freckles on her nose, the shadow of her eyelashes curling softly against her cheek. He knocked the stool over as he stood up. Caught her by the wrist, gently, and pushed her away. 

"You've treated me kindly as a guest," he said. "Let it stay like that. Please."

Her eyes were filled with the premonitions of words, but in that moment the door opened, and Zidane stumped through. Tati turned away at the sight of her uncle. Sami straightened the stool.

"There's a ship sailing for Tartessos tomorrow afternoon," said the old man without preamble. "Captain's a good man. A couple other passengers aboard, but none too suspicious. I suppose you can take care of yourself."

Sami nodded. "Thank you, for everything."

Zidane grunted. "Just win tomorrow. You'll need it to pay your fare." Turning to Tati, he produced a parcel wrapped in brown cloth. "Something from the innkeeper's wife. Nosy woman saw you were getting along, said to take care of yourself and remember the babe."

Tati took the parcel wordlessly, and Sami remembered the catcalls that had followed them upstairs from the tavern. He remembered the laughter, the naked contempt in the eyes of his fellow guardsman, now dead, left unburied on that cursed island where this all began. The days blurred together; the pain and the derision was all the same. He wondered when he had grown so numb as to barely notice it anymore. He wondered when.

Sami watched Tati tying a bandanna to keep back her hair, yellow like the ribbon she had given him. He would wear it tomorrow, for her sake, though the only token he needed was the memory of a smile, dark hair beneath his fingers, and emerald green.

He knew the difference between right and wrong, because it was simple: right was loyalty, devotion, the purpose that rang clear as a silver bell. Wrong was everything else.

.

The soldier was a seasoned veteran, a formidable swordsman, and this fight was the toughest one yet. More than once, Sami felt steel biting so close to his throat that the blade could have cut open the doors of death itself. 

The yellow ribbon was sliced from his arm, falling blood-stained in the dirt. Half the city had turned up for this match, but he still heard Tati's scream. His opponent's leg connected with his injured knee, and the joint gave out in a spasm of pain, dumping him onto the ground. The other man stood above him.

"Yield," said the soldier.

Sami spat at his feet. He saw the exact moment when his opponent's eyes hardened with anger. He threw all his weight sideways and twisted out of the way as the man aimed for his throat. The sword pierced the ground, where his head had been a moment earlier. 

Sami uncurled from his roll and onto his feet in one fluid motion, brought his sword up and smashed the hilt against the back of his opponent's neck. The man crumpled to his knees. Before he could so much as find his bearings again, Sami's sword was at his throat.

"Do you yield?"

The pride in the other man's eyes was undimmed. Sami pressed the edge of his blade closer, breaking the skin just enough to draw the first drops of blood. The soldier dropped his sword and raised his empty palms in surrender.

Sami stepped back, and the roar of the crowd rang in his ears.

"Your champion, Carteia!" cried a voice, and the people answered, _Sami, Sami of Tunes!_

.

The ship set sail at the appointed hour. The captain of the _Roten_ was a young man, younger than Sami had expected, but when he spoke, people listened. He commanded his crew's respect. He commanded a hard price, too, and Sami thought that under any other circumstance, he might have waited to find cheaper passage. As it was, now he stood on the quarterdeck and watched Carteia disappear in the distance. The sun was sailing low in the sky. He fingered the hunting knife strapped to his belt—both parting gifts from Tatiana. 

"Find her," she'd said, pressing his hand between her palms. And Sami had wanted to tell her, _He'll return to you, don't worry, you'll see,_ but he knew better than to promise her anything against the capricious whim of fate.

So he'd just squeezed her hand, "I'll remember your kindness, always."

His shoulder still bothered him, as did his knee, but for the first time in days he felt the quickening of anticipation as the ship's canvas sails swelled with following winds. In the morning, they would make port at Tartessos. He might not be able to promise fate's loyalty, but his own, at least, was still in his hands, and he intended to see it through—to whatever end.

"Why the gloomy look, stranger?" said a voice. "See a bad omen?"

A dark-haired man walked over to lean against the railing beside him. Sami eyed the high arch of his nose and the red cloak he wore about his shoulders. A rich man, to be sure, and one accustomed to authority, as well. Sami remembered seeing him board the ship earlier, accompanied by piles of luggage and an entourage fit for a prince. He tipped his head in acknowledgement but never took his eyes off the other man.

"Just thinking of some things," he replied. "Every man's got his own troubles."

"If that isn't the truth." The stranger gave him a toothy smile. "Care to tell me what your troubles might be? Easier to bear them, sometimes, if you share the weight with someone else. I'm Mario, by the way. And no need to tell me your name." Sami tried not to let his suspicion show, but something must have given him away, because Mario grinned suddenly, "Oh, don't be like that. I saw you at the tournament, is all. Sami of Tunes, right? You're not half bad with a blade. Almost as good as me, I'd say."

"I'd prove you wrong," Sami returned, "but I don't think the captain would appreciate us fighting on deck."

Mario threw back his head and laughed. "And as much as I appreciate a challenge, I hope we never have to cross swords." His eyes twinkled with mirth. "There's war brewing, you know. But it's stayed in the east so far. And for all the rumblings of trouble at Tartessos, nothing's happened yet."

A shadow of dread lumped cold in Sami's chest. "I hadn't heard of any trouble between Tartessos and the east," he said cautiously.

"Oh, there's always been bad blood between them, but that's not what I'm talking about. Tartessos is weakening. Droughts and floods and rumors of plague. The people aren't happy. Only fear of the king's men keep them in check for now. And the king knows that, so he's being particularly hospitable with his invitations recently." Mario's tone suggested a cat who had not only got the canary but found it dipped in cream. "He's being forced to curry favor with his allies, even the ones he doesn't particularly like. Though I don't see why he hates us, honestly. We've always toasted him with good cheer."

"No," Sami said drily, "can't imagine why he wouldn't like you at all."

A pause, then Mario chuckled. "I like you, Sami," he said, his eyes as sharp as the edge buried in his voice. "It's like you've got no fear in you. That's not something you see often outside of idiots or men who've accepted their doom."

Sami didn't take the bait. "Not much of a difference between the two, if you ask me." Mario could keep guessing; he seemed to be enjoying it, at any rate.

"Maybe not," he said now, still watching Sami. "Are you one of those men already at peace with his fate? Or do you still have something left to lose?"

Sami stepped back from the railing, fixing Mario with a hard look. "Are you this familiar with everyone you meet?"

"There's no harm in being friendly."

 _For someone like you, maybe._ A hint of embroidery glinted on the cuffs of Mario's sleeves, gold in the light of the setting sun. Sami looked away. "It makes you a fine ambassador, I'm sure. If you'll excuse me, Mario."

He could feel Mario's eyes on his back, following him, but Sami didn't turn around. Mario was familiar with Tartessos, that much was for certain. He had information that would be useful—vital, even—but Sami didn't know what the other man wanted from him, and until he figured out why Mario was so interested, it was more dangerous to talk than to keep his distance. 

.

They made port the next day. Sami was only alerted of the fact, however, when a gloved hand shook him roughly awake. The hammock rocked, nearly dislodging him; he rolled, landed on his feet, and looked up into the point of a drawn sword. The soldier wielding it watched him with inscrutable eyes, said something in a strange rolling tongue. A voice responded—the ship's captain, Sami recognized with the part of his thoughts currently not occupied with figuring out how to dodge the blade half a hand's span from his throat, should it come to that—and then the guard sheathed his sword. Gave Sami another hard look, and walked away. 

Sami got to his feet slowly as the guard's receding steps creaked above on deck, glancing at his apparent savior. Sven hadn't moved. The expression on his face spoke of irritation; the tension in his shoulders betrayed his fear. 

"We're here," said Sven. "You'd better get going. Suspicions are running high, looks like."

Sami nodded. "Thank you," he began to say, but Sven was already halfway up the steps. Sami gathered his things, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment to fight back the residual dizziness. He'd lain down earlier after a particularly bad bout, and sleep hadn't dissipated all of it, to his mounting frustration. He had no time to be dizzy, not now. Not when there were more important things to worry about. 

By the time he set foot on dry land, the rest of the passengers were already out of sight. A vague sense of disappointment came over him; Mario had been telling him about the palace just this morning, and Sami had hopes of gleaning something useful from his gossip. He shook his head. He would have to do without it now. 

Sami drew a breath—and coughed at the stench of salt and fish and the odor of too many bodies crushed together. Over it all rose the cacophony of voices speaking in a restless myriad of tongues, in language as colorful as the goods being unloaded from the hundreds of ships with white canvas sails. Tartessos looked busy and well as ever, at first glance. But knowing what he did, thanks to Mario, Sami could detect a hint of fear in the grim set of sailors' shoulders, the peasants' thin haggard faces. The king's men were everywhere, conspicuous in their white uniforms. Sami spotted the guard who had been on the ship and ducked quickly in the other direction. 

It was nearly sundown by the time he managed to find his way to the city gates. The throng of travelers thinned to a crawl here, and he soon saw why: more guards stood at the gates, examining every person who passed by. Many were stopped, pulled aside and questioned before being granted entry to the city. Sami hunched his shoulders, trying to blend in with the crowd as his mind worked furiously to find a plan—

The butt of a spear knocked into his chest, stopping him none too gently. Everyone within reaching distance backed away at once, leaving Sami alone with the guard who had singled him out. Sami clenched his fists, eyes still on the ground. The guard was flanked by two more. He was outnumbered.

A hand landed on his shoulder just as the guard barked out a question. Sami looked up, and Mario said, "He's with us."

The guard frowned, and Mario switched to that rolling tongue of the Tartessian court, steering Sami toward the gate even as he continued to wave the guard aside with lordly magnanimity, easy assurance in the set of his shoulders and even the smile shadowing his lips. The fingers digging into Sami's shoulder told another story, but no one else stopped them. From the corner of his eye, Sami saw the rest of Mario's entourage following behind.

"So," Mario said when they were well within the city and out of earshot of the guards, "either you're a naturally suspicious person, or you're up to something. I don't really want to know. But since you seemed so interested in the king's palace, I do have one last bit of advice for you, if you'll take it." They drew near a large tavern, and Mario's steps came to a halt. He removed his hand from Sami's shoulder and smiled when Sami didn't immediately bolt. His tone remained conversational as he went on, "Get to know the gardeners. One of them's a regular at this tavern, I've heard. Small wonder, given how poorly the king tends to treat anybody but his select few. So buy the gardener a drink or two. Let him enjoy a night off, and you'll find in him a grateful friend, I expect. Got it?"

Sami stared at the other man. "Why are you helping me?" 

Mario's grin was like a flash of lightning from the blue. "Because I like you, and you have no fear, though apparently you do have something to lose." Clapping him on the shoulder, Mario gave him a slight push in the direction of the tavern. "Gods be with you, Sami of Tunes."

Then he was gone, striding off into the crowd with his entourage sweeping out behind him like a colorful extension of his embroidered cloak. Sami tracked them with his eyes until Mario turned a corner and was lost to sight. 

.

This close to port, the chatter that filled the tavern to its rafters was as much trade as the native tongue of the land. Sami staked out a seat at the end of one long table, close to the door, and watched the other customers come and go. He listened to traders bartering goods, soldiers bragging of old campaigns, fishermen commiserating on the day's poor catch, the unseasonal storms, rumors of war and worse... 

"You're a traveler, you said?" The trader sitting next to him bumped Sami's elbow, again; it wasn't his first attempt at getting Sami to join in the gossip. "Tell us your news. The eastern king reached your shores yet with his troops?"

Sami shook his head, but before he could reply, the innkeeper's wife passed by and cuffed one of the serving girls who'd been trying to sidle up to him while serving a bowl of soup. The soup sloshed onto the table. The trader laughed, the girl ducked as her mistress lifted a hand to box her ears again, and in that exact moment a commotion went up from the tavern entrance. 

Sami turned around to see a man in blue uniform stumble back out into the street. It looked like someone had pushed him. And it looked like said someone was another man, a bit shorter than the first, but no less aggressive in his stance as he shouted a long stream of what Sami could only guess at. Nothing too flattering, probably, as some people nearby quickly placed themselves between the pair to put a lid on the brewing fight. The one in uniform stood outside the door for long moments, seemingly stunned; his counterpart broke away from the rest, walking into the tavern to gesture impatiently at a serving girl, and the next time Sami glanced outside, the doorway was empty. 

"Just yesterday them two were good friends," observed a voice to his left. The same trader. "Strange things, friendships. Money or women always ruin it."

"You know those two men?" Sami asked slowly.

The trader drained the rest of his drink before replying, "Yeah, enough. That one still here? He's a regular. Heard he works for the king. You'd never guess it, would you? Dresses like a beggar, but he's friends with Villa, so you'd think he was higher up in the world."

"Villa?"

"The one you saw him nearly clock in the face. King's soldier, that one. Though from the uniform today, guess he's taken to fighting with the fleet now." The trader leaned in with a conspiratorial leer, "And by fleet, we don't just mean the navy."

Sami just managed to keep his lips from curling into a snarl. "That's just hearsay, I thought."

The trader shrugged. "Think what you want. Or you can go ask Silva. He probably knows better, given that reaction to Villa earlier."

"That's his name?"

"Silva? Yeah, that's him, the gardener."

Sami stood up abruptly, ignoring the offended look that earned him from his conversation partner, and made a vague excuse about going to look for the serving girl to get more soup. A flash of anger crossed the trader's face—Sami tensed, angling his hand toward his hunting knife—then just as suddenly it melted into wry amusement and, "Pray she's not as sloppy as she was with that ladle." That got a round of laughs from a few others nearby, and Sami walked away, the conversation already picking up again in his wake.

It took him a moment to find Silva: seated near the corner, hunched over a table with two others. Both talking in low voices, and both eyed Sami with identical looks of suspicion as he approached. _No harm in being friendly,_ Sami thought to himself. He put on a smile; it did nothing to allay the suspicious looks, but Silva lifted his head to stare at him.

"Forgive me," Sami tried, hoping that Silva spoke enough trade for this to work. "I couldn't help noticing the...incident earlier. Doesn't seem like you're having the best of times. Can I get you a drink, perhaps?"

A look of interest flickered in Silva's eyes. Before he could reply, however, one of his companions grabbed his arm, saying something low and urgent-sounding while the other snapped a comment at Sami in a language that eluded him. Sami started to raise his hands, forming an apology. Then Silva snorted and said, in trade, 

"Piss off, Mata. I'll talk to who I want to. You don't own me, and he doesn't either."

If anything, the glares leveled against him only intensified. Silva gestured for Sami to sit down, and the other two backed away when Sami did so, apparently unwilling to share a table with him. Or maybe it was in reaction to Silva's displeasure; it was a remarkable force, Sami had to admit, especially when viewed from up close. Silva was eyeing him with more curiosity than anything else, though. 

"So," he said after a moment, "what? You don't look like a beggar or a thief. A spy maybe, though if you are you're a pretty stupid one."

"Just a traveler," Sami replied. He considered his words for a moment. "A gossip told me it looked like you'd lost a friend. To pirates."

He held his breath when Silva didn't respond immediately. Perhaps he had overstepped the line, misjudged— But then Silva laughed, humorlessly, drumming his fingers on the table. The line of his lips twisted with with a look not far removed from pain. "My life's not that interesting, stranger, if you're just looking for stories to tell."

"No. Just thought I'd share mine with you, if that would help. A drink and some conversation can cure plenty. For everyone involved." _Lies_ , but he only had to sound like he believed himself. The rest, he could only trust to luck—the hollow anger that he sensed in Silva. It was the kind of anger that drove men to distraction, made them forget they still had anything left to lose. "My name's Sami," he added.

Silva didn't smile, but the line of his mouth was softened; there was a strange light in his eyes. "Call me David," he said. "Tell me your story, then. Though first, I think you owe me a drink."

.

The story Sami told wasn't entirely a lie, though it stretched facts to their limits and twisted around truth like a serpent about its prey. By the time Silva finished his second cup of wine, however, Sami realized that the other man wasn't all that interested anyway—so he gestured for the serving girl to bring another round of drinks, and before long Silva was the one babbling nonsense instead. 

A lot of it was actual nonsense. But between some choice words for Villa and bitter rants against pirates—or maybe it was about trust, or friendships, passing references that mostly went over Sami's head—Silva talked also about the palace. About the gardens. About the king, whose last visit to his own gardens was quickly becoming the stuff of myths, it had been so long. 

"Probably doesn't even know what state it's in," Silva said, his speech surprisingly clear given how much he'd had to drink. "Army could march right through and king'd never know until too late. Not that you'd fit an army through that old door. But it's an idea. Would teach him a lesson. Teach them all something, that arms and money's not everything if you don't see what's really important. You know? So damn him, damn 'em all, he'll go down like the merc he is and I won't even feel sorry for him, won't even..."

Silva's friends came back to collect him eventually, around closing time. The intervening hours had done nothing to alleviate their disapproval, but the alcohol had made Silva more than a handful to maneuver out of the tavern, dragging his feet and lapsing back into his native tongue, still muttering something about _Guaje_. Their attention thus occupied, Sami slipped away to bribe one of the serving girls into finding him a place to sleep for the night. 

The inn was full, but the girl lead him to the stables and spread a pallet on a bed of hay. Not five paces away, the groom dozed with a cap pulled low over his face while the horses breathed into the filtered darkness. The soft noises kept him awake for much of the night. Each time Sami closed his eyes, he saw the way Silva's face had crumpled, remembering the words uttered like confessions,

_I'm not good enough, not for him, but knew that, I always knew..._

.

He slept fitfully and woke with the first hint of false dawn blue in the east. The groom was shuffling about, throwing Sami furtive glances from beneath his cap. A mare in a nearby stall sighed noisily, shattering the silence. There wasn't much more sleep to be had, Sami figured. He got up, ignoring the aches, and dusted off his clothes and rolled up his pallet.

"Should I," he began as he approached the groom. The boy—and he was just a boy, Sami finally noticed, beneath all the grim and dust and shapeless cap—jumped. "Sorry. Is anyone awake yet? Inside?"

After a long stare, the groom shook his head. "Don't know," he said haltingly in trade. "Maybe. Cook wake early."

Sami nodded his thanks, but the boy had already turned away. Carrying the pallet under his arm, Sami made his way outside into the brightening day. The door of the inn was open just a crack, he was relieved to find. Inside, a serving girl was scrubbing tables while the innkeeper stirred a steaming pot over the hearth.

"So you're the one my Kathrin snuck into the stables," the innkeeper said when he spotted Sami. "What do you want? Food's not ready for a while yet."

"I just need directions to the market." Sami paused. "Or to the barracks."

The girl glanced up at that, and the innkeeper gave him a sharp look. "You looking for trouble, you get out of my inn. Market's down the road, follow it to city center. And if you want to eat, sit."

Sami sat. The serving girl ducked her head when Sami turned to look at her, but her eyes flickered toward him again soon enough. Sami studied her profile; he couldn't tell if she was the same one from last night. He'd only spoken a few words to the other one: first to persuade her to let him stay, and then to persuade her to leave him alone. This one took her time creeping closer, step by step, wiping every adjacent table until she finally turned to his. 

"Why do you want the barracks, stranger?" the girl asked, her voice so soft that Sami barely heard it. But her gaze was steady, blue and curious. "Are you a soldier?"

"Something like that," Sami replied slowly, "I'm looking for work."

The girl nodded. "Lot of men coming through lately with those words," she said. Sami tried not to look surprised (So it was true, then? The king was building his forces for war?), and the girl went on, "You want to talk to the armsmaster. He has a post by the northern gate."

"Thank you." Sami found himself returning her smile. 

"I'm Lena," she said next.

 _Sami,_ he opened his mouth to say, but got no further as the door banged open. Lena jumped back. Sami jerked around in his seat. A square of clear light cut into the room, broken only by the silhouette of a man, followed by two others. 

"You!" barked the one in front. It took Sami a moment to make out his face in the dim lighting, and another before the face clicked with a name: Villa. The man's frown was unmistakable. It only increased now, as he snapped, "You do speak trade, don't you?"

Sami cleared his throat, stood up. "Yes," he said. "What do you want?"

One of the two flanking Villa moved forward to whisper urgently in his ear, but was waved aside with a curt word. Villa was wearing a truly impressive frown, Sami noted. He was also wearing a sword at his side, but Villa kept his hands crossed over his chest when he spoke again, 

"You were with Silva last night, weren't you." It wasn't phrased like a question, but he waited for Sami to nod, and Sami saw the way Villa's lip curled as the other man looked him once over. Probably at how shabby the cloth he wore, the faded color and the few discreet patches, sewn by Tatiana's hand. Sami's fingers curled into fists, and Villa went on, "Well, what did he want with you? And how much?"

Sami stared. His fingernails dug into his palm, and he forced himself to be civil; Villa was one of the king's men, the trader had said, and the cut of Villa's uniform certainly corroborated. "I _beg_ your pardon?" Sami all but spat out. 

Villa made a frustrated sound. He scrubbed a hand over his face, some of his disdain cracking to show—concern, perhaps. "Just. What did he _tell_ you?" Villa demanded. "You must have talked at some point. Silva talks when he's had too much to drink. Where is he now? Do you know that?"

"I bought him a _drink_ , because he seemed to be hurting." Sami told himself not to glare. "He was upset. Half of what he said was impossible to understand," and after a suitable half-second pause, "The rest was mostly about you."

Villa opened his mouth. Closed it again. His eyes narrowed. "And how did he get home, when he was upset and drunk?"

"His friends took him home."

"And he didn't say anything about leaving? Nothing about ports, or ships? Traveling somewhere?"

"Nothing except which ships he hoped would sink," Sami replied, unable to help himself. He tensed when Villa's eyes flashed, but the other man only tightened his lips. A small part of his mind wondered what this was all about—and a smaller part whispered back, _Isn't it obvious? You know what this is._

"You're lying," Villa said finally. "How do I know you're not, huh? Silva is under the service of the king. I should have you dragged back to the dungeons until you're ready to tell where he is."

"He left with his friends," Sami said flatly. He let his gaze flicker toward the hearth, saw the innkeeper glare back at him. "Ask anyone you like. They'll tell the same."

"In the gods' name, Villa," the innkeeper sighed, standing up. Villa took an involuntary step back. "Carlos and Mata took him home at closing time. Now do you actually want anything or did you just come to make a ruckus at my inn?"

Villa clenched and unclenched his fists. "Silva never came home last night," he snarled. "And he's not with Mata either. So your stories don't add up, Quique. Now tell me one good reason why I shouldn't have you all arrested for harming one of the king's own men—"

"Did you knock on Carlos' door?" the innkeeper retorted, and Villa's mouth snapped shut mid-sentence. Sami could practically see the gears turning in Villa's head.

"Carlos lives on the far side of the city," Villa said, then, in a much lower voice. "Why would he go there?"

"Because he was upset. Or else because he was drunk as a sailor on midsummer's night. Or maybe both." The innkeeper turned back to the hearth, shaking his head. "I tell you, Villa, he left with Carlos."

Sami tried to breathe quietly into the ensuing silence. The moment stretched, poised—then Villa swore, snapping at his men to follow as he turned on his heel and strode out the door. Lena let out a stuttering sigh. She had retreated to a far table, Sami saw, her hands red from twisting the rag with which she'd been wiping tables. 

"Market's toward city center, stranger," the innkeeper said suddenly. "Villa won't be back until noon at least, but I can't say what mood he returns in. You best get going while you can."

Sami glanced at Lena, who dropped her gaze, and let out a slow breath. He'd overstayed his welcome here. He couldn't help the wry little smile that tugged at one corner of his lips. "I won't trouble you, then," Sami said, looking back one last time at the fair-haired girl rubbing her rag into the woodwork of a table. She didn't lift her eyes.

It was probably for the best that Lena hadn't learned his name, Sami thought as he trudged down the road. It would save her that much trouble, at least, if Villa came looking for him again. The sun was just beginning to rise over the rooftops, the buildings and people stirring with morning activity. He would have to find a new place to stay. A place to think, because Silva had told him more than enough. Probably. He only needed to decipher it, turn words into a plan...

A pattering of footsteps made him turn his head—just in time to catch Lena as she nearly ran into him. She blushed, a lock of hair falling over her eyes. 

"Hello. Sorry. I just, um." She stumbled over her words even as she stumbled back a step, thrusting a small bundle into his arms instead. "Food for you, for the road," said Lena. Then she lifted her chin, "And I never heard your name."

The linen-wrapped bundle weighed in his hands with all the fullness of her smile. Who was he to turn down a welcoming face, here of all places? "Sami," he said, catching her hand on an impulse and brushing his lips over her knuckles. Her skin was rough, won from a life of work. "God keep you, Lena."

She squeezed his fingers lightly before drawing her hand away as she took a step back, eyes kind. "And you, Sami," she said.

He watched her walk back to the inn. Her skirt was plain, the cloth poor and rough, but the morning light suited her, and there was grace in her step even as she grew small and disappeared from his sight. Sami tucked the parcel of food carefully into his tunic, not quite against his heart. Partings inevitably left something to remember by, he told himself, touching the carved knife at his belt. Some just weighed more than others. And that was how you knew— That was how he knew.

.

"That's how I knew..." Sami trailed off.

A flash of lightning threw the world into relief. Mesut watched Sami's face grow pale with the light, shadowed in blue. He was probably hurting Sami, given how hard his fingers gripped Sami's hand. But Mesut couldn't make himself let go. 

"Knew what?" he asked when Sami didn't go on with the story. His throat felt dry; but what water they had left, Sami would need. For later. For cleaning his wounds and for drinking. Later. "That's how you knew what?"

The darkness was darker after the light, and Mesut strained his eyes to see Sami watching him. Sami opened his mouth as if to answer—and a crash of thunder cut him off. Mesut flinched away from the sound, huddling closer. The first drops of rain struck the ground. 

"Nothing important," Sami said softly. "Anyway, some smugglers were looking for an extra man, and they had maps of the tunnels beneath the old palace. I went along with them until they went to break into the castle vaults, and I escaped up toward the gardens instead. And now we're here."

He made it sound so simple, Mesut thought. As if it were nothing. As if it were something short of absolute madness. The water fell in sheets, slanting past the outcrop and glancing off the gelding's back to soak his boots and trouser legs. The drops that fell on his cheeks were cold in the bitter wind. Mesut couldn't tell if the pounding in his ears was his heart or the sounding of rain on rock. 

Sami had closed his eyes, as if exhausted. Mesut could barely feel his own fingers, but he could still sense how cold were Sami's fingers in his palm. 

"Remember," Mesut began, and his voice all but disappeared beneath the storm crashing from the sky, "remember when you said you'd sworn to protect me?" 

Sami didn't open his eyes. Mesut forced the words through despite the tightening pain in his lungs, "Well, I'm still not safe. So it's not ever yet. You still have to keep your oath."

No response. Mesut pressed his knee against Sami's knee, hid his face in Sami's shoulder. Smelled rain and sweat and blood, tasted salt damp on his lips.

 _It's not over,_ he repeated to the dark. _Not yet. You promised me._

.

 

 _"I feel like a drowned dog. I probably_ look _like a drowned dog, too, and you know that's not a good look for me, Miro. If this rain doesn't let up soon I may actually turn into a drowned dog. And then what would Lisa say?"_

_"Might not even see much of a difference. Stop complaining, Thomas. The worst of the storm was last night. We'll be home by sundown today."_

_"What if it starts raining again? There's nowhere to stop even in these gods-forsaken hills. Why couldn't we have taken the shorter route—"_

_"Because_ someone _decided to pick a fight with Maradona's men at the last inn where we stopped, and if Maradona already doesn't like sharing the road, he likes it even less after he's been slighted by a scrawny kid with sheep's wool for hair—and for brains, too."_

 _"It wasn't my fault!_ He _started it—"_

_"This is no time to start in on this again, Thomas, you know I told you—"_

_"Hang on. What's that?"_

_"What?"_

_"Over there, under the outcropping. Are those people?"_

_"Don't be stupid now. There might be bandits."_

_"Come on, Miro. What bandits wait for travelers in a place like this? And after that kind of storm? I'll go take a look. You wait here if you want."_

_"I am not waiting here— There are two of them, Thomas, be careful."_

_"One of them looks practically dead already... Hey! Over there! Are you lost? Does your friend need help? It's all right, we're just travelers, too... Where you headed, stranger?"_

_Dark eyes stared back, desperately bright._

_"I don't know. Anywhere. Please. He's in bad shape. Please help him..."_

.


	3. Chapter 3

_So with the aid of strangers' kindness—and perhaps a touch of grace from fortune's hand—the prince and his faithful bodyguard escaped the land of the pirates and found shelter with a stout-hearted northern tribe._

.

"But who are they?" Toni whispered as Manuel bent over the wounded man. His pale-faced companion hovered at his shoulder, quivering like a harp string despite Miro's repeated urgings that he should go rest, sleep, there was nothing more he could do, it was in Manuel's hands now, and though he might be young, Manuel was the best healer these lands had seen since Mad Jens and his witching cures. 

Thomas shook his head. "Couldn't get much out of them. Well, I mean, an unconscious man can't tell much, obviously. But Mesut didn't talk either. Mesut—he's the other one. The one standing."

"That's not a name I've ever heard." Toni gave the pair a distrusting look. "Seriously, Thomas. Why'd you bring them back? They could be trouble."

"What do you think they're going to do, jump up and take over this place? Sami's lucky not to be dead already and as long as he's like that, I don't think Mesut is going to be doing much more than sitting at his bedside."

"What's up with that, anyway? Are they brothers? They don't look alike."

"What? Why are you so suspicious all the time? I'd be the same way if you or Holger got hurt."

"Well, _I_ wouldn't."

"That's because you're a heartless bastard, apparently."

Toni opened his mouth to retort, but Manuel beat him to it. "Both of you either shut up or get out," snapped the healer. "Preferably both." 

Toni ducked his head and backed a little further into the corner where they stood. Thomas just waved a hand in apology and did as told, saying nothing. When he saw that they had no intention of leaving, Manuel gave them another glare for good measure before returning to his patient. Thomas caught Toni glancing at him and raised his eyebrows as if to say, _What? Wasn't my fault._

Giving that up as a lost cause, Toni folded his arms and settled his back against the wall to watch Manuel work. He had no idea what Manuel was doing—bandages and herbs and water and more bandages—and he wondered why they were going through such pains for two complete strangers. Joachim was a good man, sure, but this was going a little far even for him. And Joachim was the one who had sent for Manuel, when Thomas and Miro had come galloping up to the gates well after sundown, shouting that it was an emergency, it was dire. What was so important about a scruffy warrior who'd been stupid enough to get himself in that sad state, anyway? 

"Oh, Mesut is the younger son of the Eastern King," Thomas said under his breath. "So I guess that makes him someone Jogi can court for alliance. You know, with what Mario's been saying about Tartessos and all."

Toni stared at him. "You could have said so earlier!"

Thomas shrugged. "It slipped my mind."

" _How_ can something like that just 'slip' your mind?"

"Because there was a man dying and I had to get him some help?" Thomas gave him a look that one might give a particularly slow child. Ironic, considering who was delivering the said look. "Honestly, Toni. Who'd you sell your good soul to?"

"Shut up," Toni muttered. He turned his gaze back to the bed, to the slim shape bent over a dark head as if in prayer. Manuel cut another strip of bandage, knife edge glinting on linen meant for blood and steel, and Toni thought of Miro's grim face, thought of Bastian's war stories, and Mario. 

He shivered. The room was warm in the heat of the fire built high, but winter was coming—and in its wake, war.

.

 _We will do everything we can for you,_ they said. _Be welcome. You are safe here._

Mesut had thanked them out loud, but in his heart found no peace. It wasn't that he distrusted Joachim or his people. Miro had a father's patience, and Thomas was kind. But it was nothing to do with high stone walls or citadels far beyond the long arm of Tartessos. Danger was the memory of guilt, and distance the blood staining his clothes when they pulled him away from Sami.

He was sick with exhaustion and fear. It hadn't been like this during the first forty days, and even as a hostage, he'd been resigned. He was not afraid to lose his life. But this?

Manuel had pursed his lips at Mesut's refusal to leave Sami, the first night. When he came back the next morning and found Mesut still keeping vigil in the bedside chair, the healer had summarily ordered him hauled off to bed. 

Thomas was gentle, but insistent. "I can lay a pallet by the hearth," he said, meaning Mesut could still be close by, "but you have to sleep."

Mesut protested, but Thomas nearly knocked him over with a small push, and Mesut cursed his own body for failing him now. Thomas spread the pallet nearby, as promised. Manuel watched them from the corner of his eye; Mesut returned the favor as Manuel checked up on Sami. It was hard to see what the healer was doing, and he didn't dare ask. 

Something in his face must have given the question away, though. Thomas squeezed his shoulder. "Manu will get your friend back to health. You just rest so he doesn't have to worry about two patients, alright?"

Mesut caught Thomas' hand as the other moved to leave. "You'll wake me? If anything happens?"

"Of course," said Thomas. "But for me to wake you, you've got to sleep first."

Mesut sank down onto the thin pallet as Thomas patted his shoulder again, thoughts racing even as his eyes began to close. Manuel was still bent over Sami's bed. Thomas' boots clicked on the floor. The same clopping sound as hoofbeats on rocky terrain, or guardsmen at the door. Marching in line, robed in the colors of royalty and Mutlu leading him toward the practice grounds, sword in hand. _It's for your own safety, Mesut,_ his brother said. _You understand? It's always because of you._

He woke with a start, reaching for a weapon that wasn't there. He couldn't see. 

The smokey darkness eventually resolved itself. There was a man standing by him, hands raised in apology. "Sorry, sorry," he was saying. "Didn't mean to startle you. Thomas said to check."

Thomas. This man wasn't Thomas. Mesut stared at him a moment longer, taking in the fair hair and blue eyes, a strong face and lips made for smiling, though they were frowning just now.

Mesut immediately looked across the room. Sami was a shape in the dim room, but he was still there. He tried to calm his beating heart. Manuel would be here if something was wrong. They wouldn't have sent this strange man.

Who frowned even harder at Mesut's prolonged silence. "You can understand me, can't you?"

Mesut opened his mouth to say yes and found his voice gone. He nodded, embarrassed. Cleared his throat. "Yes. Um. Yes, I do."

"Right. Well, I came to check on your friend. Who is—fine," the other man added hastily at the look on Mesut's face. "Manuel just wanted to see in case he woke up. He said it's nothing to worry about right now."

Mesut pushed himself up, into a sitting position and then to his feet. The ground lurched. He threw out a hand for balance, caught the wall at an odd angle and felt his knees buckle. Then strong arms were around him to keep him upright.

"Careful," grunted the stranger. "You should lie down."

Mesut tried to push him away, "I'm fine—" and found he didn't have the strength. "I'm fine. I have to." He glanced in Sami's direction. "Let me see him."

"He's not going anywhere."

Mesut opened his mouth to protest, but the arms supporting him shifted to help him cross the room. He concentrated on making his feet keep up. Eventually they made it to the bedside chair, which was just as well; his knees refused to hold him any longer.

Sami's eyes were still closed. Face pallid against the dark of his hair, a thin cut scarring his cheek. A blanket covered him nearly to the neck, but Mesut could already see the beginnings of bandages on his shoulders and chest. They ran the length of his body. Mesut knew because he'd watched Manuel work this morning—last night? Yesterday?

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying not to count the days.

A touch on his arm startled him. He'd forgotten the blond stranger was still there.

"Manuel will be by later," was what the other man said now. "I brought food. You should eat it, since."

He glanced at Sami, didn't finish the sentence, and Mesut looked away. His throat was dry but his stomach churned. The stranger took his silence as acceptance and brought over a small basket of bread. Poured water into a bowl. Mesut drank, but left the food. 

The other man said nothing more. Just sat with him, tending to the hearth once in a while. Mesut didn't move from his seat. Couldn't. Sami's hands were cold, his face warm as if with fever. Mesut pulled himself closer and kept their fingers intertwined. 

Manuel appeared at some point. He stopped to talk with the blond man first, "Thank you, Lukas," Mesut heard him say, then footsteps, and a firm hand on his shoulder. 

"You haven't eaten," Manuel said.

Mesut ignored the healer's disapproving tone. "He's still not awake."

"No need to panic yet," said Manuel, and the _yet_ didn't escape Mesut's notice. "Hovering won't change much. Better to let him rest."

But Mesut didn't want Sami to rest. He wanted Sami to be here, to be awake and smiling and looking at him with those eyes. That was all.

"You don't know if he'll wake, do you."

He felt Manuel stiffen. The gentle pressure on his shoulder disappeared. "You don't know he won't," was Manuel's reply. "I do my best, but I've no magic, only medicine. And prayers."

Mesut dragged his thumb over Sami's bruised knuckles. _I pray every day,_ he thought. _I prayed every day when he was with me, I prayed every day he was gone. It made no difference._

"You should eat," Manuel said.

And those words were familiar enough. Mesut closed his eyes, remembering Iker. To have known and lost once had been enough. But to be torn away again— 

He couldn't eat. Instead he prayed. Maybe it was useless, but it was what he still knew how to do. The rest fell away. Manuel's voice, the flickering fire in the hearth. Everything but his hands clasped tight, holding on.

.

_The prince mourned to see the terrible injuries suffered by his loyal guard. He prayed day and night, but still his companion did not wake..._

.

Manuel had asked for fresh chamomile yesterday, and Lukas remembered when grazing his goats by the stream where the last of the flowering plants still lifted their white-petaled heads. He was on his way to the healer's house with the herbs, that afternoon, when a clattering of hoofbeats echoed up from the lower town. Muffled shouts resolved into a name: 

_Mario!_

The erstwhile envoy already had a dozen fawning courtiers in his entourage (a quick count revealed they had all returned safely this time, at least), but that didn't stop him from dismounting and embracing the well-wishers who came up to him in the street. The small crowd moved as one toward the great hall. 

As they passed by, the baker spotted Lukas and called him to join them. "Looking forward to the stories tonight, eh? Come on then, I'll not save you a place at his table if you're late!"

Lukas took in the baker's beaming face and considered, for one moment, saying yes.

"Back already, are we?"

Heads turned at the sound of that voice. Lukas didn't notice he'd tightened his fingers into fists until the scent of crushed chamomile greeted his nose. The crowd parted for Bastian with a murmured hush. Mario alone stood his ground. Bastian stopped half a horse length away as his eyes swept over Mario once, twice. 

"You're not expected for another month," Bastian said. "Don't tell me you got into some kind of trouble again."

"Trouble?" Mario's lips were curved in a wicked smile. "Do you really think so little of me, Basti? Would I settle for something as plebeian as _trouble_ when there's _scandal_ to be had?"

There was a split second of silence. Then Bastian burst into laughter, spreading his arms to Mario in welcome. They embraced, and Lukas turned away. Told the baker no, sorry; he had to go see Manuel. 

He made for the lower town, leaving behind the crowd and their chatter, Bastian's laughter bright amidst the cheer. The day had grown colder as it wore on, and a stray breeze nipped at his cheeks. He blinked to get the sting out of his eyes.

"Lukas."

He'd almost walked right past Miro without noticing. Lukas slowed his steps; Miro nodded to acknowledge his mumbled greeting. 

"Going to see Manuel?" Miro asked when he saw the chamomile. "He's with the patient. I'll come with you."

Lukas followed wordlessly. Miro's eyes were appraising, but if he noted anything amiss, he made no mention of it. Lukas didn't know whether to be ashamed or glad. 

The strangers were staying in the old house Manuel had claimed for his own. Situated almost to the edge of town, its last inhabitant had been Jens, and no one after had stayed long. Cursed, some whispered behind closed doors. Lukas wondered if they would change their tune, should a man already at death's door be healed in this haunted place.

When they arrived, Manuel was talking to—Mesut, that was the boy's name, Lukas remembered after a moment. Thomas had told him. Mesut was still seated by the bed, in the same place Lukas had seen him last. But for the way he turned his head at Miro's voice, he might as well have been a statue, pale in the flickering dark.

Manuel nodded approvingly at the chamomile, his quick hands already sorting them into bunches even as he thanked Lukas for his trouble. Lukas shrugged. He looked over to where Miro had his hand on Mesut's shoulder, both of them bent over the figure laid unmoving on the bed.

"How is he?" asked Lukas.

Manuel paused. "Which do you mean?"

"Both. Has he even slept?" 

Manuel shook his head. "I gave him a draught, but he woke after only a few hours. He won't find rest until Sami does, I expect, one way or another."

Lukas parsed that sentence in his head. "You don't think he's going to make it."

Manuel didn't reply. He plucked the flowers from their stems and tossed them into a pot of water bubbling over the hearth. The scent of chamomile began to fill the room.

"Can you fetch more firewood from outside?" the healer asked. "I need to watch this."

Miro was just standing up to leave when Lukas returned. He waited for Lukas to deposit his burden by the hearth, accept Manuel's murmured thanks, before pulling Lukas aside.

"Mario's back, if you haven't heard." Miro didn't wait for Lukas to respond, "I'm going to the great hall, and I wanted to ask if you intend to come. I also wanted you to know that I would make your excuses to Joachim and Michael, if you wish."

Lukas felt his cheeks flush, but beneath the shame was—relief. He told himself not to glance down at his hands, to at least look Miro in the eye like a man when he said, 

"I think I'll stay here. Help Manuel."

Miro nodded. "Very well."

There was a hand warm on his shoulder, firm, and then Miro was gone. 

The hairs on the back of his neck prickled. Lukas turned around and saw Mesut watching him, his eyes like two great shadows in the moon of his face. Lukas wondered if he'd heard. If he'd understood.

Manuel set a steaming bowl of something by the bed; Mesut blinked and looked away. 

Lukas breathed, uncurled his fingers from his palms. He knelt by the hearth to tend the fire. Everything smelled of steam and herbs. The crackling flames and Manuel's murmuring voice were the only sounds. Poor substitutes for wine and song. Then again, stories made poor substitutes for love. 

Lukas sat with his back against the wall of Mad Jens' house and watched Manuel work. _Fix this,_ he prayed to no particular god.

.

A stranger, was what the gossip said. Miro and Thomas had picked up two fugitives—just boys, truth be told—on their way back from a scouting trip south. A warrior and a prince. Both wanted by Tartessos, if Thomas was to be believed. Given all the ale he'd been plied with from villagers hungry for a tale, Mario wasn't quite sure what to believe.

Miro arrived late to the feast; Mario got one good look at the older man's worried face and decided that avenue of information was closed for now. Especially as Miro took Bastian aside for a quiet word.

"Probably came from Manuel's," Philipp noted, watching Miro seat himself at a lower table, far beneath his esteem. "You can see it in his eyes."

Mario swirled the wine in his cup. "Miro was born worried, you know that."

"Don't disrespect, Mario."

"Apologies. I meant no harm."

Philipp turned back to his food. On his other side, Per leaned over and asked Mario the latest news from the ports. Mario chose his words delicately. He had plenty of information, of course, but now wasn't the time. Joachim would want to hear this direct, after the feast.

Which meant he had to go now, if ever. There was something of an urgency pressing on the back of his mind, and Mario had long since learned to not doubt the instincts that had gotten him where he was today.

The tables were still laden with food when Mario set down his goblet, excused himself with a smile and a whispered word in Philipp's ear. Philipp nodded. 

"Should I let Bastian know?"

Mario considered. "Tell him I went to rest," he said. "And he knows where to find me later, if he'd like."

Philipp rolled his eyes at the tack-on, waved Mario to be on his way. With a quick nod to Per and Arne, Mario went. 

He made it halfway down the great stone steps of the hall before he heard a voice calling his name. Bastian separated from the shadows like wisp of smoke from the hearth. 

"Sneaking off already?"

"Always so suspicious, Basti. Really. I'm wounded."

Bastian fell into step beside Mario. "Not like I don't have reason."

"I was just heading down to see Manuel. I hear we've recently welcomed a couple of guests."

Bastian grimaced. "Yes, if you want to call them that. Me, I prefer 'trouble waiting to happen.' But what do I know. I'm just a soldier."

"Sure, and I'm just a messenger." Mario ignored the pointed look Bastian aimed at him. "I heard Tartessos was after them. I'm assuming there's a good reason no one thought to tell me this, either by letter or when I returned. I'm also assuming I made the right decision, coming back when I did, since apparently we're going to be openly burning bridges now."

"That bridge was never going to last anyway. You know that."

Mario clasped his hands behind his back, measuring his footsteps. "I do. Better than you'd think. We all have news for each other, it seems."

Bastian nodded, but said nothing more as they'd reached the door hung with sprigs of oak and cornflower. A relict of Jens' days. Manuel was sentimental about his old teacher's memory—though, if asked, he'd no doubt defend the plants' medicinal value first. Mario smiled to himself. Bastian knocked softly, twice, and opened the door.

The air inside was sweet with chamomile and smoke. Two figures were by the lone cot, heads bent close, while a third tended the fire. Tongs clattered against stone the same moment Mario recognized the healer at the patient's bedside, his lips pursed in a faint frown.

"Lukas," said Bastian, even as Manuel rose and greeted them, "Bastian. Mario, you're back."

Mario glanced from Bastian to Lukas. "Only just," he replied to Manuel. "Did we come at a bad time? I heard we have...visitors."

Bastian opened his mouth to speak, and Lukas said,

"I was about to leave. I'll come by tomorrow, Manu."

Before anyone else could get a word in edgewise, Lukas had brushed past Mario, past Bastian. The door swung open and shut. The fire popped, sending shadows to flicker over wooden walls. 

Bastian sighed. "I should go after him."

"It's not your fault."

"He obviously doesn't agree." Bastian's tone was sharp. 

Mario inclined his head in silent apology. Whatever was going on between Bastian and Lukas, Mario knew it was in his best interests to just stay low and stay clear. He'd always gotten the feeling that the goatherd didn't like him much.

"Mario is our ambassador to the south," Manuel said, once Bastian had gone. It took Mario a moment to register that Manuel was speaking trade—speaking to the young man beside him, though his attention was still on the patient laid out on the bed. "Mario, this is Mesut. I hope they haven't been spreading rumors about him."

"Nothing too bad, I assure you." Mario supplemented his words with a quick smile. Mesut seemed startled at first, before a troubled look furrowed his brows. Mario took a moment to hope no one had been spreading rumors about himself, either. "Though I heard about your friend..."

"The chamomile should help," Manuel interrupted as Mario stepped closer. Mesut shuffled aside to make room for him. "Lukas picked these fresh. Jens always preferred them to dried. Much more effective. Though it would be better if Sami could drink the potion, but the fumes carry the same healing, so." 

When there came no reply, sarcastic or otherwise, Manuel frowned. Looked up, "Mario? Something wrong?"

.

"Mario?" Manuel asked again, but Mesut watched the ambassador's expression change, his eyes on Sami's face: recognition to surprise to a split second's confusion to concern.

Then Mario shook his head. "Must be fate," he murmured. 

_So that's him,_ thought Mesut. The dark-haired ambassador. The same one Sami had spoken of. The same one who—

None of this would have happened if Mario hadn't helped Sami get into Tartessos. Sami might have turned back. Might have been safe. The more reasonable part of Mesut's brain took a moment to note that was ridiculous; the rest of him didn't listen. 

"It's not fate," Manuel said irritably. "It's _medicine_."

Mario was immediately apologetic. "No, no. Of course. I meant Sami. Fate works in threes, doesn't it? This is the third time our paths have crossed now in the past fortnight."

Now it was Manuel's turn to be startled. "How?"

But Mario turned to Mesut instead, his eyes piercing. "And you must be... Forgive me. Sami didn't speak much about anything, but I could guess. He is very devoted to you."

And just like that, the anger leveled against Mario dissipated as smoke. Mesut felt himself flush, then pale, his hands crumpling together. 

"He," his voice scraped like rock over sand, "he's very brave."

"He is," Mario agreed easily, but his eyes were appraising. Mesut looked away first.

"Brave," he heard Mario say, "and very impressive. I did help him, of course, but I didn't really think he would be able to get you out. At least not alive."

Mesut's head jerked up. "What?"

"What are you talking about?" Manuel demanded.

Mario started at his voice, as if he'd forgotten about the healer's presence. His eyes flickered to Mesut. "I shouldn't tell before I've spoken to Joachim."

"Shall I just step outside while you two catch up, then?"

"Yes," said Mario. "That would be best, I think. Thank you."

Manuel gave him a disbelieving look. When that got no reaction other than a flat stare, Manuel sighed. Stood up, "I'm going to check on Benni's mother. Come get me immediately if anything happens. Keep the fire burning."

Mesut watched him go, the door opening onto a sliver of moonlight. From a distance came the sounds of music and gathering. The noise faded with the light. Mesut could hear his own breathing.

"Sami...told me about you." He glanced at Mario. "He thought you were just out to cause trouble."

That earned him a chuckle. "Not my official job. Though with Tartessos unstable as it's been, I won't deny we've looked for opportunities." Mario leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "And you were Del Bosque's last hope. The rumors run like wildfire, not just in Tartessos. Every port and city of Baetica knows by now that the king had a hostage prince, and that was to be his trump card when the eastern kingdoms came knocking." 

Mesut felt his hands go cold as Mario smiled at him, humorless. 

"But seeing as you had only one soldier rushing to your rescue, even that hope was unfounded. Either way, war is coming for Tartessos. The crops have failed again, and piracy is rampant on the southern coasts. Now the king's own guard have turned against him. That probably helped you out, come to think of it."

 _Iker,_ thought Mesut, a sudden fear strangling the breath in his throat. He hadn't even stopped to think. He hadn't.

It was strange. He had learned politics from his tutors, had learned strategy from his brother and the captain of his father's guard. Everything Mario spoke of, it all used to press so close on his mind. War and state and the intrigue of kings. They all seemed so distant now.

"But you haven't talked to anyone," Mario noted. "Everybody in the village wants to hear from Thomas, but even he doesn't know the full story."

The fire crackled. Mesut watched Sami's pale, still face. Mario waited.

"It's my fault," said Mesut at length. "All of it."

"I doubt that. Besides, if anyone's going to take credit for this war, it should be me. Though truth be told I only needed give it a little encouraging nudge. Odds are Joachim is likely to kick Philipp out as successor in favor of the man who gets him Tartessos."

"No, that's not. It's." Mesut searched for words. "Sami. It's not Tartessos did this to him. It was me. Because of his duty."

The smoke smelled of herbs and pyres. Mario said nothing. The silence fell like damnation.

"And you actually believe yourself, don't you?"

Mesut looked up sharply. Mario peeled away from the wall, taking the other bedside chair. 

"Listen. I saw him in Carteia," said Mario. "I don't know if he told you this part. The yearly tournament there is the fiercest this side of the northern strait, and the prize purse worth a small fortune. But your Sami—I watched him fight off half an army, and all he did with the money was buy passage to Tartessos. He could've more easily begged that fare. He gave the rest of the winnings to a widowed girl, didn't even seem to want it."

"He told me."

"Maybe he did, but it doesn't seem like you heard what he meant."

The air felt very fragile, suddenly. "I don't understand."

"No one does something like this unless he's prepared to die," said Mario, leaning closer as if to make a point. "Your Sami didn't seem like a fool to me, and blind duty isn't something that a reasonable man risks his life for, especially when there are much easier ways to go. Of course, I can't be the judge of whether he was right. But you should at least know what it cost him."

"I know what it cost," said Mesut. None of it made sense. Something so absurd could never make sense.

For a long moment, Mario just watched him. Frowning. Then he shrugged, unfolded himself from the chair. 

"I'm just saying, don't blame yourself too much. He chose this freely."

A hand on his shoulder, squeezing. Mario's cloak rustled; the door creaked and closed. Sami didn't stir.

Mesut watched smoke rising to the rafters, blinking the sting from his eyes. 

It didn't make sense.

.

"Lukas."

Footsteps behind him, boots clicking on stone.

"Lukas!"

Lukas thought about ignoring that voice, thought about walking faster, breaking into a run. He could outrun Bastian; he'd always been faster, by just a hair.

He couldn't seem to outrun this, though.

Lukas spun on his heel. "Why are you following me?"

"Don't be childish. You were the one who ran away from me back there."

"I was going home."

"Would it have killed you to say hello?"

Lukas glared down at his shoes. The sun had long since set, a chill crept in through every seam and fold. The moon and yellow windows dusted the road with suggestions of light. Bastian's face flickered, almost crumpled in the dusk.

"Walk through the market with me?" Bastian asked. 

Lukas followed mutely. 

They used to do this when they were children, sneaking out through windows and over back garden fences to meet up in the empty market square. The stalls with their covering drapes and locks were portals to another world. They would have been locked up like thieves if caught, so they ran, always, lightfooted as kittens through back alleys and ways.

That was years ago. The wooden stalls had for the most part been replaced by stone-faced shops now, and they were both grown up.

Lukas shoved his hands in his pockets. 

"Remember when we used to come here?" said Bastian.

"Yes."

"We used to have some fun."

Lukas shrugged. "We used to."

He didn't intentionally inflect his words in any certain way. But Bastian must have heard something anything (out of guilt, Lukas hoped) because he said,

"Mario isn't a bad guy. If you'd just give him a chance."

"It's not him," said Lukas.

"Then it's me?"

They walked on, measuring the silence with their steps.

"War is coming," said Bastian.

Lukas couldn't make out his expression in the dark. "Why are you telling me?"

"Thought you might want to know."

"It's not my war."

Now it was Bastian's turn to pause. "You won't fight?"

 _I'm tired of fighting,_ Lukas wanted to say out loud. "No."

"You're still one of the best we've got," Bastian insisted, dragging up that old argument. "Lukas, no matter what anyone might've said — I told them all as much, and Jürgen never liked to listen, but doesn't mean Joachim won't. I've got his trust. Things are different now, everybody knows that, so I don't understand why you're still so hung up on the Etruscan campaign—"

"Forget the Etruscan campaign!"

"I only meant," Bastian said after a stunned moment, "if war does come, I don't want any regrets. For either of us. I'd rather say goodbye fondly."

Lukas turned away. "What's the difference?"

"Lukas—"

"Say it however you want. Good night."

He didn't look back to see if Bastian watched him go.

.

Benni had skipped the celebration to stay home with his mother. Manuel brought the new tincture, stronger this time, and refused Benni's offer of payment as before. "I'll take the coin when you're able, and not a day sooner." He was firm; Benni looked like he wanted to argue, but reality was on Manuel's side.

Benni's mother watched them, not saying a word. She hadn't been the same since the loss of her daughter, but Benni's quiet strength could carry the whole family on his shoulders—and he'd do it too, Manu knew—if need be. She was lucky to have him. 

He told her as much; she smiled, and this time it reached her eyes. She would be alright.

Manuel let himself touch Benni's cheek before he left. Just for a moment. No one was around to see them, half-hidden by the door. Benni caught his wrist, turned his face to press soft lips against Manuel's palm. 

"Take care of yourself, too," Manuel whispered. "I don't need another patient."

Benni nodded. "We owe you everything."

"Not everything."

When Benni tipped his face up, Manuel leaned in to meet him halfway. The kiss was brief, Benni's mouth sweet as he remembered, and it was an effort to tear himself away.

"I'll come by again soon," he promised.

Benni smiled, and for the first time in weeks Manuel saw a shadow of the angelic face he'd so sorely missed. He could sew a knife wound and mend broken bones, but hearts—few healers could boast of that gift.

Closing the door behind himself, he turned toward the street. And nearly tripped over Philipp. Joachim's right-hand man caught him by the arm, the shuttered lamp creaking softly in his other hand.

"Philipp," Manuel said, trying not to show how rattled he was. Had Philipp heard? Seen? It was dark, and they'd been careful. But. "What can I do for you?"

"Something I can do for you, actually." If Philipp noticed the flustered edge to Manuel's voice, he didn't let on. "Your fighter. He's not getting any better, is he?"

Manuel felt his hackles rise at the other man's matter-of-fact tone. "I'm doing what I can."

"And it's not working."

Manuel said nothing. Philipp seemed unfazed by his stony silence. Instead, he reached beneath his cloak and produced a thin vial of some smokey liquid. The glass was smudged with dust, dull in the wavering lamplight. Manuel took it wordlessly.

"Jens' own mixture," Philipp explained. "He snatched Frings back from death's jaws, years ago. You know the story?" At Manuel's nod, he went on, "This is that miracle draught."

Manuel stared at the vial in his white-knuckled hands. "The story also goes that this killed as many men as it saved."

"No one knew how it worked," said Philipp. "I thought maybe you'd recognize it. Maybe Jens mentioned something, at some point."

Manuel shook his head. "He never let me look at his books, if that's what you mean."

"No. I don't think it's actual witchery, whatever it is." Philipp frowned for a long moment. "Frings was wounded badly, is what I remember. The draught caused him more pain than cure at first, and Micha was ready to call for Jens' head, but within a day he was recovering well. You'd never seen anything like it. One minute at death's door; the next, he was alive."

Manuel glanced at the vial in his hands. "What did this do, exactly?"

Philipp chewed his lip. Shook his head. "Blood," he said. "I can't explain it, but it made him bleed."

Wounded men had already lost enough blood for that to be a bad idea, in general. So why? Manuel turned the old story over in his mind. It was nearly legend. Frings had fallen unconscious after sustaining heavy wounds and a long trek through sweltering swampland; by the time they got him to Jens, the fighter's spirit had been all but burned through by fever. 

Yet, if what Philipp said was true, Jens had _bled_ him—and saved his life.

"I need to talk to Miro," Manuel decided at length. "Will you ask him to come see me, as quickly as he can?"

Philipp seemed surprised by his sudden firmness. "Of course. I'll relay the message to him in the morning."

"Did Thomas go home yet?"

"I should think so. It's late."

Manuel glanced up; the moon was barely risen above the silhouette of mountains in the east. "Not that late, I hope."

"You'd know better than me." Philipp hesitated. "Can I ask what you want with the two of them?"

"From Miro? Stories of Jens." Manuel smiled at the nonplussed look on Philipp's face, "And Thomas owes me a favor."

.

Thomas thumped the pot down on the table, heedless of Manuel's hand resting just inches away.

"You could've asked one of the girls," he muttered, "if all you wanted was someone to help you _cook_."

Manuel moved his scrolls a bit farther from Thomas' glare. Wrote down one last note, studied it for a moment longer, then nodded to himself. Only then did he turn to his friend.

"You owe me, remember? I'm just settling a debt."

"On which you cheated to begin with."

"Details." Manuel inspected the contents of the pot; the meat had all but dissolved after being cooked for so long. It smelled of herbs. He nodded, "Good. Now boil the liver and greens like I told you. That'll be the last batch."

Thomas sighed, but went to the hearth. "What do you want all this for anyway?"

Manuel glanced over at Mesut nodding off in the bedside chair. The boy had picked up next to nothing of the native tongue, but it didn't hurt to be careful.

"I'm distilling it," he told Thomas. "For medicine."

"It's mush," said Thomas, unimpressed. "And not very good mush at that. What kind of medicine are you making?"

Manuel collected a set of bowls and vials from the shelf. "Less talking, more cooking."

Thomas grumbled that he'd been _cooking_ and _cleaning_ since last night, Manuel was a slave-driver, and debts be damned but Thomas wasn't his _wife_.

Manuel tuned out him out, lifting the pot to strain the liquid into a bowl. He mentally reviewed their inventory: two jars of rich broth, for blood loss; a roll of fresh bandages; wine and vinegar; clear spring water. 

He tried to keep his thoughts occupied. After all, who was to say any of this would even work? He could be administering a death sentence, for all he knew.

But nothing else had proved any better. And if they did nothing, would it be any less of a crime? This seemed their only hope. That was what he'd decided, after consulting Miro, who had come by first thing in the morning, puzzled but willing enough to talk.

Jens had cured countless men in his time, often against odds so impossible that people whispered of witchcraft. Magic. Few dared to see how he worked; fewer still were permitted to. Miro was one of the latter, for reasons that he himself never cared to explain. He seldom talked of Jens, unless asked—as Manuel did now.

Had Jens used this draught on other patients, besides Frings? Yes. For what ailments? Poison, once. More often for hunters wounded by wild beasts. Not many had survived. 

"Some wondered if it was poison itself," Miro said, glancing at the vial in Manuel's hands. 

Manuel touched the glass carefully. A poison might have been gentler, he thought, considering the descriptions Miro gave of patients subjected to this cure. 

"It's not much," Miro had said, when their interview was other. "But I suppose if anyone can make sense of Jens, it's you."

Manuel offered him a faint smile "You flatter me."

Miro stood to excuse himself. "It's not flattery if you have the skill." He glanced to the bed ensconced in the corner. "I hope you do. Joachim is very keen that they both survive this."

"I'll do what I can," said Manuel.

He hadn't promised Miro—even though he had already figured out how the draught might work. Had known it since the night before, in fact, when he dragged Thomas from his bed to fetch blankets and water and a sturdy iron pot. 

There was only one problem: convincing Mesut that they should take this risk.

Manuel added what solid meat there was left to yesterday's barley stew. It was little more than mush, as Thomas said, but it was food. He took it over to Mesut, shook the younger man awake, and pushed the plate under his nose. Set a spoon in Mesut's hand. Looked at him pointedly until Mesut made a passable effort at eating.

When the plate was half empty, Manuel let Mesut put it aside. He watched as Mesut's eyes returned immediately to Sami. 

"He's not getting better," Manuel said.

Mesut started. "But the chamomile—"

"Is no use." Manuel looked away from the frozen expression on Mesut's face. "This is the truth: he's dying. His wounds are festering, the fever grows, and soon it will cripple his breathing. At that point, he might have a day or two. At most."

Mesut's face was pale even in the yellow firelight. Manuel gave him a moment for the information to sink in, then drew the glass vial from his pocket and held it out for Mesut to see.

"This could still save him," said Manuel. "It's very dangerous, and I can't guarantee it will work. Only that there is a chance."

"Why are you telling me this now," Mesut asked at length.

"Because time's running out." Manuel turned the vial in his hands. "You could let it happen. And I can ease his passing, if you'd like. But this draught, he might survive, or he might die in agony. That's your choice."

Mesut dropped his gaze to the bed, to that ghostly-pale figure whose side he refused to leave, even for a moment.

"He's been through hell already," said Mesut.

"It's your choice," Manuel repeated, pocketing the vial. His hand shook, but he kept his voice steady, "Think on it. I'll sleep here tonight."

.

Sami's eyelids fluttered, occasionally. At first Mesut had thought it was a sign of recovery. But Sami didn't wake.

If he listened, he could hear Sami breathing. Just barely. It was a labored sound, like the rattling of a broken cart. Mesut thought of what Manuel said. That soon Sami wouldn't be able to breathe at all.

But he looked peaceful, if you didn't look too close. For moments at a time Mesut could almost make himself forget. Believe that Sami was only sleeping, that it was early dawn, and he was watching Sami for those precious few minutes before they had to wake and face the world again.

Too bad things almost never were what they appeared to be on the surface.

Shuffling boots, leather soft against dirt. Mesut looked up briefly as Thomas folded himself onto the ground beside his chair. The hearth glowed dim with embers, giving just enough light to see each other and the outline of Manuel curled up on a pallet on the far side of the room. 

Thomas broke the silence first. "What are you thinking about?"

"Nothing."

"Not even Sami?"

"He's always on my mind."

A pause. Mesut closed his eyes. What use was a confession when no one was there to hear it?

Thomas said, "You care a lot about him."

It wasn't a question. It shouldn't have been. It hadn't been a question for a long, long time.

"I don't know what to do," Mesut admitted after a long stretch of silence.

"You don't trust Manu? He's a good healer."

"It's not that simple."

"Isn't it?" The shrug was apparent in Thomas' voice. "What would you want him to do, if it was reversed?"

Mesut frowned. "I'd want to live. But—"

"And would you blame him for trying, if it didn't work after all?"

"Of course not."

Thomas tilted his head to one side. "So why do you think he'd blame you?"

 _I don't,_ Mesut wanted to protest, except that was a lie. Thomas' eyes were piercing even in the dark.

"I think, if you really cared for someone _that_ much, you'd risk almost anything to be with them." 

Thomas' hand crept over Mesut's wrist, giving his fingers a warm squeeze. 

"And if you ask me," he said, "it sounds like Sami has pretty much already done just that."

.

Manuel woke in the night to Thomas shaking him. The fire was lit, a lamp on the table. Mesut was kneeling by the bed, clutching Sami's hand, lips tight as if it were his own body that suffered.

Thomas coaxed Mesut to his feet, steered him to the chair to give Manuel room. But the healer needed only a moment to know why Mesut was pale as a ghost. 

Sami's breathing was labored; the fever burned beneath his skin. 

"He's worsening quickly," said Manuel, glancing over his shoulder at Mesut.

Mesut's gaze was fixed on the bed. "Can you still heal him?"

"I can't make promises. I told you."

Mesut nodded. Closed his eyes. "But you can. Please. You said." His voice was remarkably controlled, though the words stumbled over themselves. "Please try. Please save him."

Manuel drew in a slow breath,

"I'll do what I can."

As he turned to fetch the medicine, he saw from the corner of his eye Thomas drawing Mesut into a hug. Mesut tucked his face into the crook of Thomas' shoulder, against tawny curls tinted red by firelight, and shadows flickered over them both.

.

Years later, Thomas will tell the story to children, grandchildren, born too late to have witnessed Manuel's legend for themselves. The tale grows each time he tells it, but Philipp makes sure the most fantastic elements are firmly ground to dust—though Thomas protests that Philipp wasn't even _present_ , how would he know?

Thomas had been there, he'd been there to cut the bandages and set the water to boil. Manuel had been but a poor healer and relied on friends in lieu of a proper apprentice to assist him. They'd both been young. Had Manuel been older, warier, he might not have dared such a cure.

The patient was already in the jaws of death. It was an effort to get the potion down his throat, and precious drops were spilt, soaking through bandages, his shirt. But they managed. 

And then there was nothing to do but wait.

The minutes dragged into hours. Thomas tended the fire. Swept the floor. He helped Manuel change the bandages, and that was when he noticed: the dying man was still burning, sweating from the fire in the heart and the one within, but the moisture glistening in drops on his skin was—blood. 

And the sounds. Thomas would never forget the sounds that came from his throat as the draught took full effect. There are no words for it. But anyone who heard would have felt the chill, recognized the cry of a living thing in pain.

It might have been hours. It felt like days. Thomas washed skin that at times seemed to bleed from the lightest touch. Bandages, vinegar. Salves and wine. More potion, more blood. More water, more water. Blood. 

At some point he stopped caring, it was everywhere. The wounds. The fire. The sounds. It was all they could do to keep the fever in check.

And still the agony went on.

Until finally, at some unknown hour of the dark—it stopped.

Did he die, is always the breathless question when Thomas pauses here. He times it perfectly, as the fire burns low and his listeners strain to stay awake for the happy ending that children are wont to expect.

But Thomas' answer never changes: a hint of a smile, a lift of the shoulder. Manuel was already a skilled healer, he'll say, but Manuel was no Jens. It would be years yet before he came into that inheritance. Youngsters need time to grow. Time—and rest. Same as you need right now.

But what about the man? Did he live?

Hush, hush. It's late. The rest of the tale will keep for another night.

.

Manuel did what he could, but he could only do so much. Not for the first time (and certainly not for the last), he wanted to curse Jens and his madness to the depths of every hell. Would it have killed the man to stay, at least until Manuel's teaching was complete? Would it have been such a burden? Manuel would never have been a burden to him. 

Which was why, despite everything, he could never actually curse his teacher's memory. Not even when he watched the sunrise for the third morning in a row, and still Sami showed no signs of recovery. He was alive, but only just. Mesut said nothing as he sat by the bed, helped Manuel and Thomas change bandages, wipe Sami's brow with cool water and cloth.

Manuel watched Mesut put aside the linen rag, taking Sami's hand instead. He looked away. Thomas caught him by the arm and all but pushed him into a chair. 

"Rest," said Thomas. "You look like death."

"I can't."

"Keep going like this and believe me, you won't just look, you'll _be_ death. Here." 

Manuel blinked as a cup appeared in his hands. The broth steamed over his face. 

"Eat it."

Thomas' tone booked no arguments. Manuel opened his mouth to protest and found himself too tired to formulate the words. Stifling a yawn, he did as he was told.

He tried to protest as Thomas threw a blanket over him, but Thomas wasn't having any of it. And despite himself, Manuel found his eyes drooping shut. Fear could keep him awake for only so long. The fire crackled, the room silent. Thomas' hand warm on his cheek, for just a moment, his touch something like worry.

A half-choked sound woke him. The fire was low, his vision milky with sleep, but that sound. 

Manuel was on his feet and stumbling toward the bed almost before his mind had caught up with his own body because. That sound. It twisted a sickening knot in his stomach. Because there was Mesut, kneeling at the bedside, crying, and oh gods, Manuel's heart plummeted—

Before he realized that Sami's eyes were open. Blurry, dazed, but open. _Alive._

Manuel checked the bandages covering his chest, his shoulders. His skin was warm with life, the fever broken. Pulse steady. The bleeding had stopped.

Mesut had Sami's hand caught in his own, held near to one tear-stained cheek. Manuel didn't understand a word of what Mesut said, muffled on his own lips and pressed into Sami's palm, but it sounded like a prayer.

.


	4. Chapter 4

_The healer's witching powers were strange but true, and the prince rejoiced at this miracle. For his brave bodyguard was dear to him—more dear, perhaps, than he dared to say..._

.

Thomas wasn't the smartest kid, as Miro liked to remind him. But he had a good head on his shoulders, he knew a spade when he saw a spade, and Mesut was definitely in love with his Sami. So it was good Sami finally woke up, doubly good that he was now on the mend. That was only right. Thomas had always known he'd make it.

"Liar," Toni said, slinging the pair of coneys over his shoulder. "Not even a witch could've seen the future. Manuel didn't know if it was going to work."

Thomas rolled his eyes as he trudged along beside his friend. Their boots shushed through the thin layer of freshly fallen snow, new footprints breaking over the edges of the old. He could see his breath mist in front of his face when he spoke.

"Manu's not a witch. He's a healer. And if you'd been there like I was you'd've understood it."

"Understood what?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Thomas threw his arm around Toni's neck. Toni tried to duck away; Thomas just curled himself closer, crooning into his ear, "The wonderful, magical power of _love_. Just like I always told you!"

Laughing, Thomas danced out of the way before Toni could punch him in the stomach. He scraped up a fistful of snow from a nearby shrub, but Toni was faster. The snowball caught him full in the face in a puff of spluttered laughter. 

Moments later it was Toni shrieking as Thomas stuffed a fistful of snow down his shirt. The culprit had enough sense to run after that, but Toni had a good throwing arm, and there was no lack of ammunition. 

Thomas' hair was littered with clumps of snow and Toni's shirt collar was soaked through by the time they reached the gates of the keep. The sun had just started to set. In the shadow of high stone walls, Toni slowed his steps and caught at the edge of Thomas' sleeve.

"So what now," he asked, whispering. "Winter's come early. Where will they go?"

Thomas didn't ask whom he meant by _they_. Just shrugged. "Why should they go anywhere? Jogi said they can stay."

"That's." Toni bit down on the curse at the tip of his tongue. "There's war coming, and everybody's saying these two will bring it right to our doorstep."

"Those are just rumors. We've got a friend in Mesut now."

"For all that he's worth," Toni hissed. "Didn't you hear Mario's story? Your Mesut couldn't even get a ransom from his own father. What use is an unwanted prince?"

"Good thing we're not sending _you_ to the negotiation table, then." Thomas gave him a puzzled look. "What's got you so worried all the time?"

"Nothing, it's just..." 

While Toni searched for the words, the gate warden peered over the wall and shouted at them to get inside or get lost; sun was going down. They hurried on.

The streets had been swept clean of snow here, outside the market square. Toni could read the traces of wagon wheels and hoofprints written in the mud. Thomas walked beside him in silence.

"It's just," Toni tried again, "I hear things sometimes. Word spreads fast, what with everyone knowing that you and Miro brought back an injured prince. Doesn't Miro tell you things, too?"

He watched Thomas start, watched his surprise settle into a petulant frown. "Why would Miro do that?"

Toni raised one eyebrow. "You tell me."

They walked the rest of the way to Toni's home in silence. 

"You're welcome to eat with us," he offered, as always. 

As always, Thomas declined. "Not today."

"Lisa's waiting?"

"Promised Mesut I'd go see him."

"What for?"

Thomas rolled his eyes, but there was a grin tugging at the corners of his lopsided mouth. "Because I'm a very nice person, and everybody needs a friend. You should know, with all the time I spend keeping you company."

"Oh, go on," said Toni, "save your charity for the next time you lose a bet with Manu."

Thomas made a face at him. Toni waved him off with a laugh. He stood by the door, the day's catch weighty on his shoulders, and watched Thomas' lanky silhouette disappear around a corner. The smile slipped from his face even as the last fingers of light slipped into dusk. 

Toni shook himself and turned to the warmth beckoning from inside the house, bolting the door behind him shut.

.

His first conscious memory: _I know that voice._

The second: pain. It hit him like a fiery monster rearing up from the deep, a tangled knot in his chest and what felt like a thousand cuts crisscrossing every inch of his skin. Beneath it all was a crushing ache, and it seemed in the scant moments of silence between breaths that he could hear his bones creaking. 

He listened, and his eyes struggled to open against a smokey darkness. That voice was calling him. He tried to answer.

Someone was holding his hand, and someone was crying, because he could feel the dampness on his fingers, but he didn't know why.

Water on his lips, too, sudden and cool. There was a clouded sweetness in the aftertaste, he couldn't quite place it, and then it was too much effort to keep on remembering.

He woke again to the smell of food; it turned his stomach. Someone was speaking to him. About him.

"—must eat, or he'll just waste away again."

He wouldn't be able to keep it down. He tried to say as much, but still no words came. He tried to see and saw someone hovering at his beside, a bowl in his hands. They helped him sit up. 

He heard that familiar voice, "Here, let me."

His stomach was knotted around emptiness and loathe to welcome any disruption, even a spoonful of broth. Some of it spilled; he kept the rest from following by sheer force of will.

They let him lie down again. Sleep crept around the edges of his consciousness as he heard a door open, and a new voice asked, "How is he?"

"Needs rest. What do you want?"

"Keep your skirt on, Manu. I said I'd help, didn't I?"

"You don't need to..."

I made a promise, someone said. Just like long ago, and it echoed down through the dark. He dreamed of voices and heard them again half-awake, laughing, murmuring.

 _Find her_ , and, 

_You said, you swore to,_ and, 

_Sami._

His name.

"Sami..."

When he opened his eyes this time, it was to soft firelight. The pain had faded to a dull hum, his memories felt hollow, but his mind was clear. And he knew that voice. 

_Mesut,_ he tried to say. It came out as a dry cough.

Before he could even make a second attempt, someone was helping him sit up and then there was a cup of water being held to his lips. He drank until the burning subsided in his throat.

Mesut moved to put the cup away, and Sami caught his wrist. 

"Mesut," he said. His voice was rough with disuse, but he had command of it again. "My prince."

Mesut froze. Their eyes met as Sami searched out the familiar planes of his face. Mesut sat down on the edge of the bed, covering Sami's hand with his own; the cup lay forgotten on the floor. Sami could see his throat working, struggling to speak.

"I thought I told you not to call me that," Mesut said finally.

He remembered. "That was a long time ago."

"Not that long."

No. It was coming back to him, albeit slowly. Sami lifted his eyes and took in their surroundings. Packed dirt floor, a round stone hearth; long table on the far side of the room, flanked by empty shelves, splintered barrels and crates; a door. The windows were shuttered, and the fire burned merrily, but still he could feel the earth-deep chill.

"Where are we?"

"A free city," Mesut answered, "in the mountains. Three days' ride north of Tartessos."

North? "You were supposed to head east and south, to Carteia."

"And you were supposed to take me there," came the reply. Mesut touched the bandage on his shoulder, lifting his hand further to trace the line of Sami's jaw. His neck. "Now we'll just have to wait for spring."

Sami sought the spaces between Mesut's fingers with his own, Mesut's palm warm against his cheek.

"I'm glad you're safe," his prince said, and how strange, Sami thought, that it had come to this. 

But Mesut's eyes were sincere, and he let Sami pull him closer until their foreheads touched, just enough to block out both fire and shadow, and then the only air was that one breath between their lips.

.

Thomas drew the door carefully shut. For once in his life he was glad he'd decided to exercise some discretion. Of course, originally it'd been because he didn't want to disturb Sami lest he'd been asleep. But one glance inside, two dark heads bent close and Mesut's hand fisted in the blankets on the bed; Thomas could take a hint.

With a wry smile, he took a step back—and bumped into someone standing right behind. He whirled around.

"Gods be damned, Mario!" 

Mario laughed at him. "You look like you'd seen a ghost."

"No thanks to you. What are you doing creeping up on me like that?"

"Came to see the patient." Mario tilted his head toward the recently closed door. "Is there a problem?"

Thomas opened his mouth. Closed it again. Shrugged. "Manuel says he's not to be disturbed." Toni was better at coming up with excuses than he was. Speaking of which. "Why don't you come talk to me instead? I've got a question or two for you."

"I didn't do it, whatever it was."

"It's not." Thomas gave Mario a push in the general direction of the inn. "Come on, I'll buy you a drink."

"Getting a bit full of ourselves, aren't we? A few months in the scouts and suddenly you're the big man around town."

"Save it. I can still outshoot you any day of the week."

"And then some," Mario acknowledged. 

Thomas grinned. "So don't you forget it."

The inn was starting to fill up with twilight settling in. Per greeted them cheerfully, with an admonishment for Thomas to show up more often or his usual corner by the fire would be forfeit. Thomas just laughed and called for two dark ales.

"Now then," said Thomas as Marko set down a pint each on the small table between them, "talk."

Mario arched one elegant eyebrow. "What would you like to hear?"

"I've been talking to Toni."

"Don't tell me you're infected with his paranoia, too."

"He hears things." Thomas ignored Mario's snort. "And I know Toni's a worrywart, but when his worries start making sense is when I start paying attention. So I'm asking you. What does he know that I don't?"

Mario sipped his ale. "Why don't you ask Miro?"

Thomas slammed his tankard onto the table, anger flaring. It was an effort to keep his voice from rising. "Miro doesn't tell me a damn thing and you know it," he hissed. "So just give me a straight answer. Why's Arne been getting supplies to make weapons again?"

"Because," said Mario. He shrugged. "It's just fighting. You know how it goes. Has to happen every so often to keep men busy and minds like Philipp's from exploding with pent-up scheming."

"But this isn't just another raid."

"And how do you figure that?"

"Because Manuel asked Miro about Jens, when he was healing Sami." Thomas worried at his lower lip, stringing his thoughts together. "And Miro. You know how Miro doesn't like to talk about that. But he did, this time."

For long moments, Mario said nothing. Talk and laughter from other tables swirled with the smoke and steam of the cook fire, the dull clang of knives and spoons, a serving girl's giggle ringing against some man's full-throated laugh. _Miro never laughs like that anymore,_ came the unbidden thought.

"Guess you're not as dumb as you look," said Mario quietly. 

Thomas stared down into his drink. "Tell me what's going on, then."

"You already know."

"If you're just going to keep messing with me—"

"No. Thomas, listen." The laughing edge to Mario's voice was gone. Thomas looked up as Mario continued, "You were on that scouting trip, with Miro, to the midlands. Remember why?"

"Bandits, as Hansi said. But what's highway robbery got to do with anything?"

"And I was just complimenting you," Mario muttered. " _Think._ Robbers don't grow bold without reason. How do you suppose it happened that someone like Maradona got so powerful? If Del Bosque had been keeping his peace, if Domenech still had any power over his men and his lands..."

"It never should have happened," Thomas finished for him.

"Every highway from here to Tartessos," said Mario. "The land's ripe for war. And maybe we're the first to smell blood in the water, but I assure you we won't be the last."

Thomas remembered Toni's frown. The dark circles under Mesut's eyes. Miro had already fought enough to last a lifetime and was getting no younger. Kings fell in war, but war was also how new kings were made. That much Thomas had known since he was a babe, badgering elders for tales of war and glory and proud, dead men.

And now there was Michael. Bastian. Philipp.

But who, was the question. Who? And how many bandages would Manuel have to cut, to see that crown placed upon a hero's bloody head.

Mario watched him with eyes unblinking as a cat's.

"I heard Prince Mesut is a decent archer," said Mario, completely out of the blue. "You might take him to the training ground sometime and test that rumor."

Thomas found that he couldn't read anything in the other man's expression. Mario finished his drink. His chair scraped over the stone floor when he moved to stand. Tilted his head slightly in a gesture of uncharacteristic solemnity. "Good luck," he said. 

Mario navigated the crowded room with ease, cloak dripping red from his shoulders, and Thomas was almost afraid to know.

.

Joachim offered them refuge for the winter. For as long as they needed. Mesut wondered if he expected to profit in gifts or alliance or other hidden ambitions. But Joachim waved aside Mesut's protests that he had no payment for this kindness.

"You are my guests. Stay until spring, when your journey home will not be so deadly."

Mesut could hardly argue with that. Sami was mending, but mending was slow. The few paces from bed to hearth to chair were an ordeal. Mesut stayed with him, every step of the way. 

Thomas came by in the afternoons with news from the great hall or the latest gossip from market. Often as not he also brought whatever caught his eye. Dried flowers. Fish. A fur cap that sat lopsided on Mesut's head, forever falling forward to cover his eyes.

Once, it was a snowflake.

"Melted on the way," Thomas said, laughing as Mesut closed his fingers around drops of water in his palm. 

It had snowed several times now; from the doorway, the window, Mesut watched the drops of white settle over the earth. But it wasn't until Thomas forcibly dragged him outside that he finally set foot in the stuff. Sami had watched with wry amusement as Thomas barged in, banging the door into the wall and announcing that Mesut was to come with him, no arguments accepted.

"Manuel's orders," he explained cheerfully. "Says you're not to stay cooped up like this lest you actually turn into a clucking hen. Up you get."

Mesut had no chance to get a word in, edgewise or otherwise. Thomas dumped a pile of furs into his arms. Mesut straightened it out to reveal a short, rough-sewn cloak. To that, Thomas added a long bundle wrapped in oilskin, a quiver, and a pair of archer's gloves.

"I had Toni find these for you. Best we could do on short notice, but it should be warm enough."

Warm enough for the practice grounds was what Thomas meant but neglected to explain, though Mesut had gotten the general idea, given the equipment and the bow slung across Thomas' back. In the shadow of the great hall lay a small square of packed dirt, swept clean of snow. Thomas nodded to the guard at the gate of the compound, and he let them through without a word. 

The stables were close by, as were the kennels; they could hear distantly the baying of hounds. A blacksmith's forge stood cold for now, just around the corner. Mesut imagined it ringing with hammer and anvil, water seething from glowing metals plunged into its naked depth. He shivered. The sun peered down from behind fitful wisps of cloud.

"Do you hunt?" asked Thomas. Mesut made a vague sound, and Thomas continued, "Mario and Bastian take me along sometimes. It's fun, but to be honest, I'm no use during hunts." 

"Why?" asked Mesut.

Thomas shrugged, motioned for Mesut to stand fifty paces back from the dummies staked into the ground at one end of the square.

"It's the riding," said Thomas, after he'd put three arrows into one target's wooden head, each point clustered close to where eyes would be. "I'm a decent shot, otherwise." 

While he spoke, Mesut unwrapped the bow given to him. He traced the strangely truncated curve, checked the string, before hooking one end loop and bracing the bow against his boot. The wood bent powerfully beneath his hand, but it felt flimsy compared to the stout recurve he'd had back home. The memory was a surge of hollow warmth; he tucked it carefully away.

Thomas was watching him. Mesut took his time inspecting the arrows. Each was made of white wood, straight and well-fletched. Goosefeather, he thought, running a finger gently over the vanes.

"No one's beaten me at this in years," Thomas said, as if a suggestion.

Mesut selected one smooth grey bolt, shifted the bow to his right hand to draw with his left. Thomas raised an eyebrow at that, and Mesut blocked him from his peripheral vision. Breathed. _Focus on yourself,_ said a small voice in his mind. See the target. The space between Thomas' shots.

The arrow flew true.

"Not bad," said a voice from behind them.

Mesut turned, even as Thomas said, "Philipp. Didn't expect to find you out here."

"I was watching from my window," said Philipp. The named stirred a buried memory in Mesut's head, but he had no time to jostle it loose as the newcomer covered the ground between them with three long strides to greet Mesut with a smile. His face was framed by thick brows that seemed more used to frowning.

"I must apologize for not visiting our honored guests sooner." Philipp's tone was cordial enough. "I trust you've been made to feel welcome?"

Thomas rolled his eyes. "Oh, of course, don't take _my_ word for it."

Mesut assured him, "Thomas has been very kind."

"I hope he hasn't been showing off too much," Philipp added as he glanced from their bows to the target's bristling head.

Mesut caught Thomas making a face behind Philipp's back and coughed into his hand to disguise his laugh.

"Miro practiced archery when he was young," Philipp remarked next. "You might ask him for advice sometime, Thomas."

The humor disappeared completely from Thomas' face, Mesut saw, sudden as a summer storm. Philipp turned, arching an eyebrow at Thomas. Who stared back, and the set of his jaw wasn't defiant so much as determined.

Philipp appraised him for a long moment, before a smile abruptly erased all hints to the contrary.

"Well, I leave you to your hobby. Prince Mesut, perhaps you would join us at the high table for midwinter. You and your friend Sami are most welcome, always." Philipp nodded to Thomas, "Good day, then."

Thomas didn't respond, and Philipp was gone too quickly for Mesut to think of a stopgap. A cloud drifted across the face of the sky.

"Midwinter's next week," Thomas murmured, kicking one foot against the frozen earth.

.

"You're late," Joachim said when the door to his chambers finally opened on the heels of a soft double knock. 

Philipp inclined his head in acknowledgement as he took his seat between Bastian and Miro, ignoring Mario's smirking face. Joachim seemed to expect no apology so Philipp gave none, and they moved immediately to business. As it had been since that night Miro and Thomas came thundering up to the gates with two broken strangers, the business was war.

Philipp listened to Bastian recount the armory review, keeping half an eye on the map spread across the table before them. It was marked with stone figurines: a carved eagle for their citadel, painted towers for enemies to the south, west, east. Valencia was a yellow turret on the coast.

"Arms can be replenished, swords sharpened," said Joachim when Bastian finished. "More importantly, we need to be looking for allies."

Four pairs of eyes turned to Mario, who shrugged. "I'll get you an answer as soon as I can, but they've only just recovered. Have some pity."

Pity and Mario were not two concepts Philipp would ever have put together in his own mind. Not that Mario was a bad person. No, he was rather like Philipp in some respects. They were good at what they did and unapologetic about that fact. Except Philipp didn't flaunt it, the way Mario often did.

He himself had nothing to report, so they moved on. Miro drew a roll of parchment from beneath his cloak. 

"News from Baetica," he said. "Timo wrote."

Philipp's hands curled into fists. Miro's face was grave as he explained. Tartessos had fallen into civil war. The old king driven from his throne, and the one who occupied it now was a sly fox of a man they called Mourinho. Del Bosque still had his supporters, resistance fanning out along the coast and inland, but the old fractures of loyalty deepened with each passing day. This was not a land that could defend itself. The harvest had been poor, and war would only aggravate the common folk's many woes.

"Just as I said, then," Mario laughed, and Miro gave him a stern look.

"It's no laughing matter, even if you were right. A bloody winter bodes even worse for the spring."

"Pirates," Bastian agreed. "They've grown bold, haven't they?"

"The more they weaken Tartessos, the easier our task will be," said Joachim.

Mario looked across the table at Philipp, as if waiting. Philipp said nothing. That was all for the day; the rest could and would have to wait, until they got an answer from their would-be ally and his sacrificial friend.

.

"He said they want me to dine with them."

Mesut was frowning that frown he had when he was thinking long and hard about some troubled topic. Sami knew the expression well.

"They've been so kind," Mesut went on, "I don't see how I can refuse, or even why. But there's something about Philipp. I think he—careful—rubs Thomas the wrong way, too."

"You have to hold your ground," Sami said, trying not to grit his teeth. He tried not to lean too heavily on Mesut for support, either. The chair was only two paces away, only a few more steps. His knee screamed bloody murder at him, and he ignored it, because it was only three steps, two, and—agonizingly—done. 

He couldn't help the soft grunt of relief as he folded into the chair's wooden support. Mesut's hand was still on his shoulder. Half-protective, half forgetful, so Sami didn't remind him.

"You're at a disadvantage already," he went on, after he'd gotten his breath back and Mesut still had that frown on his lips. "Show them weakness now, and they'll pounce. They know who you are, who your father is. You have power behind your name, and you don't owe them anything."

Mesut gave him an odd look. "But I do. They saved your life."

"That doesn't mean you owe them yours."

"Doesn't it?"

"Not that much."

Mesut snatched his hand away. Folded them behind himself as he began to pace. "Why?" he asked. "Because you think you're not worth that much?"

"I'm not." Sami frowned at the anger suddenly sparking in Mesut's eyes. "That's a fact, but it's not the point here."

"What is, then?"

"You were never supposed to fall into any such debt to begin with."

"And you weren't supposed to get so badly hurt that I had no other choice."

"But you weren't supposed to—"

"Help you? I should have let you die, saved myself and forgotten about you, because that's the right thing to do?"

Sami shifted uneasily as Mesut glared at him, as if daring him to agree. But what other option was there? This was the truth.

So he said, "Yes. You should have. It's expected of a prince."

"I told you not to call me that!"

"Whatever I call you, you are still the king's son," Sami pointed out. He didn't understand why Mesut should be so worked up over this one detail. Blood was blood. So why? "You are my prince. I was only fulfilling my duty."

"To do what? Protect me?"

"I am your guard."

"And you're to look after my life, my physical well-being." Mesut's tone carried a strange edge of bitterness. "That's what a guard does. I know that. And maybe that's all you were entrusted with at first, but no longer. It's different now."

Different? "How?"

Mesut gave him an incredulous look. "What do you mean, how? Everything has changed."

"But we will get you back home. As soon as possible. You will assume your rightful place again, and you will—"

"That's not what I meant!" Mesut turned his face away. "I told you, on the island. When we go back, even when we go back, I'm keeping you. And I meant it."

"And I will always serve you, so long as you want me."

Mesut said nothing, the silence stretching thin, until finally he shattered the moment with a trembling laugh,

"I'd hoped you would remain as more than just a servant, Sami."

As more than... "I," Sami began, but the words dried out his throat. His chest hurt suddenly, and he touched the bandages, wondering if he had reopened some wound. His hand came away bloodless. But the pain remained, twisted as knots. "You know that's not possible."

"Why not?"

"You have a duty to your people."

"Yes, my duty is to guide and lead them. And to be such a leader, I must be the best among men. Which means I need you." Mesut turned to face him at last. "You make me a better person."

Sami gripped the arms of the chair, fingers creaking with strain and heart racing faster than his mind. "It would be more appropriate if I remain a guard," he said, and just managed not to tack on, _my prince._

"Perhaps, but that's not what I want."

"But it simply isn't _done_."

"So I'll be the first."

"You can't!" His voice sounded small even to his own ears. It sounded—afraid. He dropped his gaze. "I can't."

Mesut was quiet. "Don't you want this?"

 _I do. Of course I do._ Out loud, Sami replied, "You have been away from home too long. Once we return, you will remember who you are, and all that it means."

He kept his eyes on the ground. But there was a light touch on his cheek, fingers curling gently to cup his chin, urging him to look up. To watch, as Mesut sank to one knee before him. Sami reached out to stop him, and Mesut caught his hands instead in a gesture of sweet supplication.

"I know who I am," said Mesut. "Distance doesn't change that. And no amount of distance or time or rank could change what you mean to me."

Sami found no words with which to respond.

"You can't tell me you did what you did just out of duty." Mesut met his eyes then looked away, suddenly shy. "I know. And I think you do, too. So stop dying for me. You're no good to me dead."

Except that wasn't true, Sami thought. "You endangered your own life, handing yourself over to those pirates. You did it again by coming here. I've failed you."

Mesut shook his head. "You protected me with your sword, and I did the same with my words and status and however I'm able. It's as much my right as it is yours. You're too important to me, and that's not going to change. You might as well get used to it."

But how could he? Mesut spoke with conviction, and Sami felt his own doubts fading in its light, but how could he.

"I was trained to guard, to serve," he said, struggling to translate the order within his head into words. "My whole life. This is all I know, Mesut."

The hands clasped around his were gentle, as was the reply, 

"It hasn't been your whole life yet. You can learn. We both can. Together."

It was madness, probably, but it was his madness now. Something that should never have been, and here was Mesut, offering him an impossibility.

He opened his mouth to say, _Yes_ , just as a knock sounded at the door, a familiar voice following close behind.

.

"Mesut! Mesut, Per's been telling me about some of the preparations for midwinter and you won't _believe_ what..."

With the ease of long years of practice, Manuel tuned out Thomas and went to set his bag on the table. Miro had come up with some willow bark for a tea to ease some of Sami's pain, and Manuel intended to brew it today.

Glancing over his shoulder, Manuel saw that Thomas was still chattering away. Thomas had always been an...enthusiastic friend. Manuel had long since given up on explaining to him the concept of personal space, as had most others. Including Toni, which could be considered a minor miracle. Then again, Toni was nothing if not practical, and fighting off Thomas' affections was a futile endeavor. He always got his way in the end. It was a simple fact of life, something to be borne with as much dignity as might be mustered while staggering under the unwieldy weight of Thomas draped across whichever body part one had happened to leave exposed at the moment of attack. 

At first, Manuel had thought perhaps Mesut might be spared, given that he was a prince and not just another boy from the village. But Thomas treated Mesut no differently than he did Holger. And the real wonder of it all? Mesut didn't seem to mind Thomas all that much. 

But Sami did.

Manuel was a healer: to heal you had to know, and to know you had to see. He saw the way Sami would fall silent whenever Thomas was around, as he did now. The look in Sami's eyes, as Mesut laughed at something Thomas said. Manuel had heard conversation in a foreign tongue, just moments before knocking. Before Thomas had barged in ahead of him. The walls were thin. So were pretenses.

The tea was brewing nicely. Manuel removed the pot from the fire and set it aside to simmer in its own heat, keeping the lid on. Dusting himself off, he strode over Thomas and clapped him on the shoulder, interrupting what seemed to be a highly energetic tale about a snowball fight.

"Mesut, Sami," he said, nodding to them while Thomas huffed his indignation; Manuel ignored him. "You'll be joining us for midwinter, yes?"

Sami looked to Mesut, who said nothing at first. Then he turned to Manuel, "Do you think it would be wise? Sami is not yet recovered. I don't want him to over-exert himself."

"His progress has been good," said Manuel, even as Thomas remarked, "You don't have to do _everything_ together."

If Manuel hadn't been looking for it, he might have missed the way Sami glanced down, his expression going closed and dark. Thomas opened his mouth to say more, and Manuel gripped his shoulder, hard enough to bruise. Thomas gave him a wide-eyed look, the words on his lips startled into silence.

Manuel turned to Mesut. "The choice is still yours, of course. If you do not feel up to it, I can tell Joachim why."

Mesut seemed troubled. "I don't know..."

"You should go." 

Three pairs of eyes turned to Sami, who continued, "It would be rude to refuse, would it not? You have shown us great kindness." Though the words seemed addressed to Manuel and Thomas, Sami's gaze was for Mesut only. "We will go. Both of us."

"Great!" said Thomas. "That's settled, then."

Manuel watched as a slow smile lifted the corners of Mesut's lips. A nod. Sami's eyes were dark and ponderous, still. Manuel wondered how he was the only one to sense the bitter irony of Sami's words. The man was mending well enough, so Manuel couldn't complain. But he could and did drag Thomas with him when he left, despite Thomas' protests that he still had something to tell Mesut.

"Give them some room to breathe, you burr," he snapped at Thomas once they were outside.

Thomas rolled his eyes but fell into step beside Manuel. They walked toward the market in silence. Manuel began mentally reviewing the ingredients he needed for a new tincture, before remembering that he wasn't going to Benni's today.

Thomas said, "Honest, Manu, if I didn't know better, I'd say you were jealous."

" _Jealous?_ " Manuel rounded on Thomas, because he could take a lot of irony, and had, in his life, but really—this was too much. "Are you actually as dumb as you look? Just leave them alone. They've been through more than enough without _you_ getting in the way, too. For shame, Thomas."

He was met with a confused look. "What are you talking about?"

"Can't you see the way Sami looks at Mesut? The way you're all over him. People aren't toys to be played with. And these are my patients, so this is me telling you to piss off."

"What are you..." Thomas shook his head. "Look, I know they care about each other. A blind man could see that. Who do you think it was talked sense into Mesut in the first place, huh?"

"You don't get it." Manuel's knuckles ached with the tension in his clenched fists. "You have Lisa."

"What the hell is there not to get? It's all the same."

"You don't understand!"

"I understand well enough to see that you're being a puss about it. If you got into another fight with Benni, don't project onto me, because I'm not your punching bag, so just man up and already and tell him—"

He saw the flash of surprise, of _fear_ in Thomas' eyes as Manuel threw him against a wall. The hut's thatched roof shuddered, releasing a fall of snow. Thomas scrabbled at Manuel's arms. His feet kicked and met only air, as Manuel held him there, pinned.

"Don't you _dare_ ," Manuel hissed. "Never say that again. You hear me?"

Before Thomas could try to nod or respond, Manuel abruptly let him go. Let Thomas gasp for breath and accuse him with incredulous eyes. Manuel walked on, not waiting for Thomas to catch up.

.

Lukas found him by the frozen stream, where chamomile had bloomed in the fading autumn but now was covered only with snow. Manuel was folded in on himself, arms crossed and neck bent against the wind. He didn't look up when Lukas approached, footsteps crunching over the snow.

"Why the long face, Manu?"

The healer said nothing as he continued to stare down at the surface of the ice. Lukas unwrapped the scarf the scarf from his own neck and threw it around Manuel's shivering shoulders, and they sat together in silence, waiting. The hills watched them, as unmoving as the earth had ever been. 

"I don't know how you do it," Manuel said quietly, after a time. "Just let Mario walk in like that. Like it doesn't matter."

At that name, Lukas felt himself turning dark, inward. He tried to shake the it off. "Why should it matter?"

"Fate," Manuel replied. "Everyone's always talking about it. Benni talks like that, too, sometimes. Like it's so easy. But it's _not_. It's not."

Some things should be, Lukas wanted to tell him. Because he remembered the promises they'd made, once—childhood adventurers, brothers in arms—but more than that; they were always more. That their fates should be inseparable, in life or in death. Bastian never believed much in fate, of course, but he'd promised just the same. So Lukas had followed him, into the scouts and into war, into a disastrous campaign that set the way for Bastian's glory while he himself fell by the wayside.

Now here he was, tending his goats, while Bastian sat at tables meant for kings.

"We come into this world alone," Manuel was saying, "and we leave the same way. Jens taught me that much. So why isn't it like that for anyone else?"

Lukas shook his head. "It isn't like that for everyone."

"Isn't it?" Manuel turned to him. "Wasn't it like that for you and Bastian? You were inseparable. Still are. He talks about you all the time."

Not where Lukas could hear him, though. But that wasn't fair; Bastian still wanted him to fight, didn't he? Though he didn't know what it'd cost. That was one thing Bastian never really understood: failure. Probably another reason why he preferred Mario's company.

"He still loves you, doesn't he?" Manual asked, voice soft as a whisper of wind on snow. "I can tell. He talks, and—he'd do anything for you. I don't know how you stand it."

Lukas swallowed. That was the problem, he thought of answering. That was the problem, because they'd sworn, once, a forever that Lukas now couldn't keep. _I'd rather say goodbye fondly,_ Bastian had told him, and Lukas wanted to know if he meant it. If he really _would_ say goodbye, if he could bear it, to leave for a far-off land and fight a war and go where Lukas couldn't follow.

 _Wouldn't follow,_ that voice in his head whispered as it had ever since he nearly fell to an Etruscan sword. The memory of blood and fear was a constant nightmare. Jens had pronounced him fit to fight, after a long winter's healing; but Jürgen had seen the way he cringed at the war games, come spring, and thrown him out in disgust. And Bastian—for all his sympathy and coaxing—had never really understood.

He wouldn't, he couldn't, and it made no difference because either way it wasn't Lukas at Bastian's side, now.

"It doesn't matter," he told Manuel. "How you feel doesn't matter, not compared to what you do. A man's not defined by his words."

"But if he asked you, wouldn't you say yes?"

"What?"

Manuel tugged at his scarf, agitated, and for a moment Lukas wondered what they were really talking about. There were rumors—oh, there were always rumors—but one of the many things Manuel had learned from old Jens was how to keep a secret and keep it so no one else would ever divine it, even years after you'd gone. "If he asked," Manuel repeated, "you'd go to war for him. And war's coming, we all know that—"

"No," said Lukas. His own voice sounded flat and cold as the plains. He saw Manuel give him a startled look. "That's not how it works."

"How do you know?" Manuel's voice was pleading; Lukas didn't know what assurance he was looking for. "Words don't mean much, perhaps, but until you ask—how do you know for sure?"

 _You don't_. And that was the point, maybe. If he didn't ask—if he didn't bring it up, if he didn't ask Bastian to stay, for him, for a different kind of promise than the one they'd sworn as children—then Bastian also couldn't say no.

Manuel was still looking at him with that plea in his eyes, desperate for an answer. A reassurance. But Manuel was a healer. How could Manuel understand, when even Bastian could not?

_But what if he could?_

Lukas pressed down on that treacherous hope, buried it as deep as his bitterness, and stood. His shadow stretched lonely across the snow painted red and cold. Two sets of footprints leading to here, where he stood, and neither paired with whom it should be. He offered Manuel his hand.

"We need to get back inside," he said. "They'll close the gates soon. Sun's going down."

.

The city hummed with barely-contained anticipation as midwinter approached. The day dawned cold but clear, and morning rose over a snow-covered earth to find the cookfires already burning and the doors of the great hall open to household and townfolk alike. Preparations proceeded apace for the evening's celebration. 

Thomas had been summarily banned from his own house that morning because Lisa needed all the space she could get for cooking and washing and whatever else it was women needed to do. Which meant that Mesut found himself dragged along for an impromptu walk while Thomas checked his traps. The woods seemed to have been stripped bare of game over the last few days; not even a squirrel was to be seen. Mesut found a small owl frozen in the snow. Its wings were as white and hard as the landscape, legs curled tight to its feathered body. They left it for the foxes.

The sun drifted south and west, lighting torches in its wake. As preparations tuned down, the minstrels tuned up their harps.

"Are you sure you want to go?" Mesut asked again, helping Sami into a tunic borrowed from Manuel. "You shouldn't over-exert yourself."

"We're going to a feast, not battle." At Mesut's skeptical look, Sami shook his head. "Manuel will be there, so stop worrying. Besides, you have no choice but to go. And if you go, so do I." His voice grew softer, reaching out to grasp Mesut's hand briefly, "We agreed to that, right?"

Mesut acquiesced. Even Thomas (always first to laugh at the nonsense of rank and spectacle) had lent Mesut a set of clothes fit for the high table. The needlework was fine, patterned in red and gold, but the indigo cloth was coarser than he was accustomed to and it irritated his skin.

He tried not to tug at the sleeves too often, later, seated at Joachim's table in a place of honor beside Miro and Philipp himself. A draft crept through the hall and made itself felt even amidst the hubbub of voices and bodies numbering through the hundreds. From the swept stone floors to the dim rafters overhead, the room blazed with festive noise. Every beam and doorway boasted garlands of evergreen and red, long wooden tables burdened with bread and roasted nuts and countless fat, stuffed birds. Song and laughter flowed uninterrupted—as did the ale, golden like the hair of fair-faced girls. Mesut declined politely, both on the drink and the girls. 

"Our fare must seem poor to you," said Philipp, leaning close to make himself heard over a lively tune that vied with human voices for volume.

"Not at all," Mesut replied immediately. The note of concern had carried over in Phlipp's voice, though the words spoken were in trade. Mesut had learned a bit of the native tongue, thanks to Thomas, but most of the phrases he knew were not fit for a lord's table.

All the better, perhaps. The very fact that Philipp bothered to speak trade meant Philipp found him worth the effort. The knowledge hummed beneath his skin, subconscious. It was all coming back: the observations, the ear trained for nuance; a sixth sense for where and how power fell.

"If there is anything at all, you must not hesitate to ask," Philipp said next.

"Your hospitality is as great as your kindness," Mesut replied. "I can only hope to repay your friendship, though it is also an honor to be in your debt."

Philipp smiled, inclining his head in acknowledgement. He turned to Bastian, then, and said no more of the matter. Mesut breathed out an inaudible sigh. A quick glance down the table showed that no one else wished to engage him in conversation at this time. Small blessings. He sat back ever so slightly, giving himself a moment to think.

Philipp was kind enough, but Mesut also sensed within him a steel as hard and sharp as the man seated to Joachim's left: Michael. Dark of hair and eye, watching the great hall as if from a distance of not only space but also time. More than Philipp, more than Joachim even, Michael looked a leader of men. His face was fair but his hands battle-scarred, and something about him drew every person's eye, whether they willed it or not.

Mesut caught Miro watching Michael more than a few times. He wondered about that. Miro was a kind man, like Philipp, and like Michael, he commanded respect. But Mesut could not imagine Miro bending another's will to his own.

It was tiring, in truth, noticing these things. Mesut caught himself frowning and quickly smoothed his face. He wished he could be down at the lower tables as he cast his eyes through the noise, searching for Sami's face. He wondered how long it would be until he could beg off without offending their host.

.

Lukas had been giving him dark, thoughtful looks all evening, when he thought Mario wasn't looking. Mario wasn't. But he noticed. You didn't survive as long as he had, in three different courts and through countless diplomatic missions, without learning to see every last thing happening around you, explicit or otherwise. And Lukas had never been known for subtlety.

Vaguely worrying that Bastian, sitting right beside him, hadn't noticed the same. Even more worrying if he had, and was in fact choosing to ignore all the warning signs. Mario covered an involuntary sigh behind his goblet. On their heads be it, then. But to hell if Mario was getting involved in their latest spat; he'd already had enough of that for a lifetime.

He excused himself with a murmured word, not even bothering to come up with a plausible reason. Bastian looked mildly put out, but no one bade him stay. They were all more interested in Mesut anyway. 

Mario slipped away quietly, keeping an eye out as he made his way between the long tables below. It didn't take long before he spied Manuel sitting with a certain dark-haired someone in the far corner.

He clapped Manuel's shoulder, nodding to Sami, who'd looked up first.

"Enjoying yourselves, I trust?"

"Making sure my patient makes it through in one piece," Manuel replied drily. "So leave him alone."

Mario snorted. "I'm on your side, all right? Why don't you go take a break, and I can look after Sami here for a bit."

"You shouldn't," Manuel began with a skeptical look.

"Let me rephrase that," said Mario. "I'd like to speak with him. If you would be so kind as to leave us alone."

Manuel huffed out a breath, but got up with only minimal grumbling. To Sami, he added, "If he bothers you, yell." 

Mario waved him off and claimed the newly-vacant spot on the bench.

"What did you want to discuss?" asked Sami.

Mario laughed. "That was an excuse to get his moping highness out of here. What were you talking about, before I got here?"

"Something about Thomas. They don't seem to get along very well."

"Thomas gets along with everyone," Mario replied. "They've always been close. If something has changed, this is the first I've heard of it."

"He seemed very intent on warning me that I should keep Thomas at arm's length," said Sami. "I told him it wouldn't be necessary, as Prince Mesut and Thomas have become good friends. I'm not sure why Manuel finds that so troubling."

Mario frowned. Then his eyebrows quirked up, and a wicked smile dawned across his face. 

"How _interesting_ ," Mario drawled, amusement evident in his voice. "It seems our healer is suffering from an ailment himself. Over-identification. Or, if you prefer: general idiocy."

"I'm not sure I follow."

"He's worried about you," said Mario. "And he thinks Thomas is the problem. Which begs the question of what exactly is going on with _his_ life that's made him jump to such a conclusion."

Sami gave him a long, hard look. Then shook his head. "Please tell me you didn't come over here just to gossip about Manuel's personal life."

Mario shrugged, grinning. "And if I did, what of it? One learns as much from gossip as from intelligence reports, I find." Casually, he reached for a pitcher of ale and poured himself a generous cup. "But I am sure two well-traveled men as we will have no trouble finding a thing or two about which to have a pleasant conversation, if you'd rather speak of matters that are, shall we say, beyond these walls?"

"I'm sure that would be most informative," Sami replied, and his deadpan could have put even Joachim to shame. "You must have many tales to tell, being an ambassador. Though please tell me your diplomatic trips aren't _always_ so...successful?"

Sami raised one eyebrow for punctuation, and Mario's laughter was a swift, bright sound. 

.

Thomas had set himself but one goal for the night: get Toni to loosen up. With Holger and Lisa both present to help, it should have been more than a done deal. Except, as it turned out, Toni still wasn't much fun even when he was this drunk: he went all pink in the face and slurred his words a bit, but otherwise remained pretty much unchanged.

Though he did get really clingy, which was hilarious. Holger, fighting off an armful of inebriated Toni, didn't seem to agree. Thomas pouted at the both of them,

"Spoilsports."

"Just because they don't go along with everything you say doesn't make them spoilsports," said Manuel as he plunked himself down in Lisa's recently-vacated seat.

"Manu!" Thomas threw an arm around the healer's broad shoulders. Then he tried to remember why he did that. So maybe he'd had a little too much to drink himself—but it was a feast. What else was there to do? "Manu, hey. Hey. Is there something's on your mind?"

Manuel pushed him away as Thomas tried to peer into his face. On his other side, Toni started telling Holger a story about his pet beagles.

"Something's on your mind," Thomas decided. "Spill! Whoops, I didn't mean the drink. Here."

Manuel shook his head but accepted the ale. Thomas refilled his cup as soon as it was half-empty. This time, Manuel stared down at it first before drinking.

"Sorry about the other day," he said. "I didn't mean to."

"Huh?" Thomas had to stop and think about what Manuel meant. "Oh, when you lost your temper? Everybody does that. To me, I mean. I'm pretty annoying, huh?"

Manuel snorted. "Yeah. You are."

Manuel could hold his alcohol better than most people Thomas knew. So he kept refilling, and Manuel kept drinking. Thomas squinted at this friend, wondering if it was making any difference at all. Manuel kept looking around the room, as if searching for someone. Thomas tried to follow his line of vision but it was too crowded to see much.

"Who're you looking for?" he demanded finally.

Manuel shrugged. "None of your business."

Thomas sat back with a sigh. "You're no fun anymore, you know that?"

"Not everything's fun and games forever."

"You sound like Miro."

Manuel laughed. "You wish," he said, and knocked back the rest of his ale. His feet weren't altogether steady when he stood, but he shrugged off Thomas' hand and left without another word.

Thomas frowned after him. His thoughts were fuzzy, his ears ringing with Manuel's parting shot. The comment rankled, though he couldn't really say why. After a bit, Thomas got up as well, leaving Holger to Toni's drunken affection. He needed some air.

His head was still spinning, as much from the heat as from the ale. He kept one hand on the wall for support as he made his way toward the door, careful to avoid the dark corners and little doorways that couples made their rendezvous. 

The nighttime was a blast of coolness that went straight to his head, shifting some of the cobwebs out. Thomas shook himself, shivered. He looked around for a place to sit, perhaps by the steps, which were abandoned but for—

Miro. Of course it would be Miro, of all the people Thomas could have run into out here. His boots were loud on the stonetop, and Miro looked up before he could even ponder the option of ducking back inside.

"Thomas."

Thomas started to make some excuse, something about Toni and going to find Manuel and all that, but no sound came out. He closed his mouth. Shrugged. "Hi."

Miro shifted his cloak to make room for Thomas beside him on the step, light from the great doorway spilling yellow and warm behind them. The unspoken invitation felt more like an order. Thomas went, helpless. In the shadows it was cold. 

Miro was watching the stars. Thomas looked up and was nearly laid flat by a bout of dizziness. He closed his eyes, breathed, trying to clear his head. 

"You've had too much to drink."

"Have not," Thomas protested, automatic. Just because Miro had known him since he was a babe didn't give him the right. Miro still treated him like a child, and he wasn't anymore. Hadn't been for a long time. 

Miro sounded sad when he said, "I do not treat you like a child."

Oh. Thomas must have spoken out loud. 

"I hope you don't think that I don't respect you."

"You still baby me," Thomas muttered, drawing his knees up to his chin. "I'm not a kid anymore."

"I'm old enough to be your father."

"But you're not."

"I'm know I'm—" Miro stopped, mid-sentence, when Thomas' head dropped against his shoulder. Miro's cloak smelled of pine and wilderness. Clean.

"I'm not a kid," Thomas said quietly. "You can talk to me. I know you need a friend, too."

Miro didn't respond, but he didn't move away either. So Thomas closed his eyes, leaning against Miro's solid warmth, and let the stars watch them instead.

.

When Bastian finally left the high table to step outside for a bit, Lukas was waiting for him. Halfway along the great hall, the wall pressing close on the right and the long tables crowded on their left, Lukas stepped forward and into Bastian's path. A couple servers swerved carefully around them to avoid dropping their burdens of food and drink.

He'd had a bit to drink, but mostly, he'd had too much time to think. He'd had nothing but time to think, ever since Bastian gave up on convincing him to come back—reestablish himself, begin again, carry on as if the past didn't haunt Lukas day by day—and maybe it was the ale and the sweet festival air talking, but maybe Manuel was right. You couldn't know, until you asked.

"I need to talk to you," Lukas said.

Bastian blinked at him. "All right," he said, gesturing for Lukas to continue. "I'm listening."

Another server stepped past him, with a noise of irritation that faded into courtesy when she noticed Bastian—it rankled, even now—and Lukas shook his head. "Not here. I need to talk to you properly. Come on." He reached for Bastian's hand, the way he'd done a thousand times before.

Bastian flinched away from him. "What's this all about?"

Lukas stared at him. "I want to _talk_."

"So talk, then!" The flash of anger was gone as quick as it'd come; Bastian's features smoothed into a cool smile that wouldn't have been amiss on Mario's face, and for a split second Lukas almost couldn't breathe his chest was so tight with rage. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. Bastian wasn't supposed to say things like, "It's a strange day, indeed, when you actually initiate conversation, so you'll forgive me if I'd rather not wait for you to change your mind again."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing more than what was meant."

"When did you start talking like this?" Lukas hissed at him. He took a step closer, and Bastian held his ground. "When did you start talking to _me_ like this, like I'm—like I'm any other person? I'm still _me_ , Basti. I don't deserve to treated with less respect than some frivolous courtesan who wouldn't know the first thing about trust or—"

"If you've got something to say about Mario, then say it outright."

"Who said anything about Mario?"

"You did! You always do—it's always about Mario, but you won't even admit it, and I am _tired_ of having this same fight over and over again, Lukas! If you really don't like the idea of me and anyone else—if you really want to fix this, then _do something about it._ "

Some people were starting to stare. They'd kept their voices low enough not to be overheard by many, not over the general chatter and the minstrels' tune, but there could be no mistaking the angry line of Bastian's shoulders. Lukas wanted to reach for him. To hold him or to punch him, or just to seek some reassurance—he didn't know. He hadn't known, for years now, but that didn't mean he couldn't ask.

"I am," he said. "So I'm asking."

Bastian's brow furrowed. "Asking what?"

"Mario's brought us nothing but trouble." He had a moment to think, as the words left his mouth, that Bastian wouldn't know if Lukas had meant the city or _you and me_. Just then, Lukas didn't care. Either. Both. "War's always coming, and that's the way of it, but he's been hungering for it and he doesn't even care— He won't fight, you know he won't, but he'd let you die and I won't stand for it. I won't stand for it, Bastian. So I'm asking."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"I'm asking you not to go."

"What?"

"If—when war comes," Lukas said. "don't go. I'm asking. Just this once." He drew a deep breath. "I'm asking you to choose _me_."

Bastian's entire face froze. A low murmur rose from the table next to them, people shifting uneasily in their seats. From the corner of his eye, he saw someone stand up as if to come over and separate them—and he wasn't going to allow that. Not anymore. Maybe Bastian didn't understand, but if he'd just _listen_ —

He reached for Bastian's shoulder.

Bastian knocked his hand away.

"How _dare_ you— Are you out of your mind? No, don't touch me! Not everything's about you, you coward!" 

.

"So," said Mario, "let's talk about getting you two home."

Sami lowered his cup warily. "I should think that Joachim would want Prince Mesut to stay until they have made some sort of alliance pact. That seemed to be his objective."

"Oh, no doubt, no doubt." Mario waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. "And I don't mean _immediately_ , of course, unless sailing through winter storms is another high-risk activity that you enjoy."

"I am not the man you believe me to be, Mr. Ambassador," Sami said drily.

Mario laughed. "Disappointing, I confess."

"When did you mean, then?"

"At the first sign of spring," Mario replied without hesitation. "If Joachim can't tie down an alliance by then, well, he won't be worth it anyway, will he? Anyway, I don't like him taking advantage of you."

"You mean Prince Mesut."

"No. I mean exactly what I said. You're a good man, and people like you are hard to come by."

"You give me too much credit."

"I rarely give any credit." Mario's grin was wolfish, but his voice sincere. "Consider it proof of my respect. Don't scorn it."

Sami knew better than to turn down a friend—a lesson Mario had proven to him, not too long ago. He said as much. Mario smiled, obviously pleased.

"I'm flattered," he said. "Now listen to another piece of advice, for it comes from the same good friend: tell your prince to give Joachim what he wants. Promise whatever he must. Promises are cheap, and they will win you passage home."

Sami glanced around, but no one seemed to be paying them any mind. He looked back to Mario; the ambassador met his gaze steadily, waiting for a response. Sami chose his words with care, 

"Such advice may be considered treasonous, in other courts."

"As they might be here," Mario agreed. 

"You're helping us against the wishes of your lord." It wasn't a question, so Sami didn't inflect it like one. "Why?"

Mario's eyes were sharper than any edge of steel. "Don't ask too many questions now, or I'll have to kill you."

"I'd like to see you try."

For one frozen moment, Mario stared at him. Expressionless. Then he burst out into a loud, long laugh. The sound turned more than a few heads, but Mario paid them no mind.

"And that's why I like you," he said, grasping Sami's shoulder, a gesture of brotherhood, which was returned in kind. "The gods are with you, Sami of Tunes. As they are always with good men."

"Or so we'd all like to believe."

"Need to believe in something," said Mario, his grip strong and firm, "but sometimes, it actually is true."

.

Sitting at the foot of the lowest table in the hall meant that, by the time the platters finally got to him, most of the choicest dishes had already been reduced to crumbs and bone. Benni listened to his neighbors grumble good-naturedly as they filled their trenchers with hearty bread and stew instead. They may not eat like kings, but no one ever went hungry under Joachim's roof. And there was always plenty of ale.

"You don't want that?" Julian pointed shyly to a wedge of cheese that Benni had been picking at all evening. Benni pushed his plate over.

"Help yourself."

He should have stayed home, Benni thought as his gaze wandered. Not to the minstrels or the high table, where the lords sat feasting some foreign prince, but rather to the door. The dogs beneath the table nipped at his heels, and he wished he hadn't come. 

He hadn't meant to. His mother was unwell, and he was supposed to be home, looking after her. But when he'd told her as much, she'd shaken her head and squeezed his hand, "Go, child. Don't let my sickness dictate your life. Give Manuel my blessings, when you see him."

Her voice had been weaker than a whisper of wind, and he'd not found the heart to tell her no. Because she had mentioned Manuel, perhaps. He had never told his mother, after all. They'd never told anyone. Manuel wanted it this way, and Benni hadn't had the courage to ask for differently. The most he'd ever done was last week, when he suggested (harmlessly enough, he thought) that they go to the midwinter feast together. That had ended with Manuel leaving tight-lipped and not even bothering to say goodbye. 

So here he was now, alone. A platter of pies came around next, and Benni watched as Julian took the last one. 

His mother was right. He let circumstance and other people decide for him, making do with what scraps were handed down. Because he was weak. He was too weak to take care of her, and the shame was a sick churning in his gut. 

A tap on his shoulder. Benni pushed his plate in Julian's general direction, and a voice that definitely did not belong to Julian said,

"Benni. Hey."

Manuel, face flushed and smiling, the sweet rush of his proximity drowning the bitterness of only a moment before. Benni grasped his hand, and instead of flinching away Manuel leaned even closer. 

"Wanted to talk to you," he said, breath hot against Benni's ear. "Come on."

Manuel tugged on his arm, and Benni let himself be lead away from the noise of the great hall, down a dim corridor and behind a tapestry's covering shade. Manuel was more than a bit drunk. The taste was overwhelming, stronger than even the frantic demands of want, and why did it have to be that the only time Benni got him now was when there was an emergency, a death, or the stench of drink on his tongue? 

He pushed Manuel away. 

"Not like this," he heard himself say.

Manuel blinked, "Why? Nothing wrong with this," and reached for him again, hand ghosting over the curve of Benni's ass. 

"I said no!"

Manuel took a step back, surprise written all over his face. But even surprise didn't clear the drunken haze in his eyes.

"I," said Benni, and found his voice squeezed into oblivion by the sudden tightness in his throat. Say it, _say it_ , he howled at this weakness. Manuel watched him with blank incomprehension. Benni curled his fingers into fists. _Say it._

"I won't be somebody's guilty secret." _Say it._ "Not even for you."

"What? You're not." Manuel reached for Benni's trembling shoulder. "I swear. I never asked—"

Benni jerked away before he ever made contact. "No, I know you never asked for anything. But I _am_."

Manuel withdrew his hand as if he'd been burned. Benni turned away, ripped the tapestry aside, sharp light splitting the dark. He ran, but not fast enough to escape Manuel's plaintive voice,

"Benni, wait, I d—"

He never heard the rest of the sentence, as there came a sudden roar of noise from within the great hall, and Manuel's plea was drowned in its swell.

.

"—you coward! Just because you won't fight, what right do you think you have to ask _me_ —"

It was never going to end well. They both knew it, and every soul within earshot knew it, too. Philipp knew, even without being close enough to hear most of the verbal exchange. The belligerent tilt of Lukas' shoulders spoke volumes, as did Bastian's affected nonchalance. 

No one saw who threw the first punch, but the resulting crash was loud enough to alert anyone still unaware. Bastian backed into a long table. Lukas stumbling into a knot of servers and their plates. A girl screamed, tablelegs creaked, and spilled drink sloshed a glistening path across the wooden floor. The uproar sucked in those nearest, first, then spread like a swirling summer storm.

In a flash, Michael was out of his seat and into the thick of the fight, pulling people apart, shouting for order. Yet he was only one man. The crowd swallowed him up, spat him out stumbling and smouldering with a temper that had once laid armies to waste. 

A temper that jeopardized them now, for the prince was watching, his eyes dark and solemn in the firelight. How could they hope to bring a new order to Baetica, if they could not even keep order under their own roof?

Such idiocy should have been put to the sword long before this. Philipp stood.

" _Enough._ "

.

The authority in Philipp's voice cut across the room and through the commotion. One single word, uttered with no extraordinary force. A _command_ , leaving plate-clinking silence in its wake. 

Mesut found himself holding his breath. He knew now where power lay.

.

Who was he to speak thus? This child, unblooded and untried. A man who had never known the pain of sacrifice had no right to ask anything of his brothers in arms. So who was he to command with such a tone as this?

Yet they listened, all of them. All around him. Faces familiar and ashamed, cowering back as a little man stepped down from the dais and spoke again,

"You will not disgrace this hall on a holy day. You will not disgrace the name of your lord before his honored guests."

Michael balled his hands into fists. Philipp addressed the great hall with sweeping gestures, but the sly arrogance of his gaze lingered on Michael, bald-faced as day. As if the words were meant for him. As if he _dared_.

The little dog that tasted scraps from the lord's own plate grew bold. Dogs took after their masters, after all, and Joachim was just as much a schemer as his right-hand man. They looked down from above, thinking themselves untouchable, wise. But Michael looked at them and saw only how they would fall.

Philipp gestured for the servers to pick up their platters, began directing those around him to right the overturned benches and move the tables back in place. The minstrels struck up a tune again, at a flick of Philipp's hand. The murmuring of voices resumed, but Michael remained where he was, holding Philipp in his gaze.

Philipp met his eyes with a sideways glance. And instead of facing Michael, he turned away. 

The _insolence_ of it all was a spark upon the dry tinder of injury already suffered for far too long. Michael surged forward—and found Arne's hand like a vice around his arm. Holding him back. 

"Don't, Micha," warned the blacksmith. "It's not worth it. Not right now."

Michael twisted away from him. "This isn't your fight."

Arne grasped both his shoulders, standing so they were face to face. "It is every man's fight. Because a man does what is needed of him, not what brings him the greatest gain. You said that yourself."

The breath left his lips as a hiss. His own words, thrown against him to drench anger like water upon heated steel. Michael felt his chest rise and fall, told the racing of his heart to be slow, be strong. Only then did he clasp Arne's shoulders, dropping his head in tacit apology. 

A man did what was needed. For duty to each other came before solitary pride.

.

Bastian winced as the damp cloth wiped away the blood smeared across his hairline. The blow hadn't hurt, at first. Or at least, he didn't remember it hurting during the fight. He hadn't even noticed what caused it, only the shouting and the wound in Lukas' eyes and then suddenly there was a gash in his head and it was his blood staining both their hands.

Lukas rinsed out the cloth in a bowl of water. "Hold still," he muttered.

Bastian tried. He looked down at his feet, at the floor. At the wall. The adjacent cots. The infirmary was empty but for them. A thin layer of dust rested on the windowsills as a humble testament to peace. He thought of the prince who had sat on Philipp's right-hand side, and wondered how long this dust would remain.

He wondered if Lukas knew. If Lukas cared. Probably the only thing on Lukas' mind right now was how soon he could get away from here. If Bastian had had his way, they wouldn't even be here. But Joachim had ordered them both away to clean up and make up whatever spat had riven them apart. If only it were as easy as cleaning a cut.

"I'm sorry," Bastian said finally.

Lukas dropped the bloodied cloth into the bowl. "For which part?"

Bastian found that he couldn't even summon the energy to be angry at the mulish set of Lukas' mouth, or the accusation still in his voice.

"Everything, I guess."

That surprised a startled glance from Lukas. Bastian tried a smile, only to let it fade unreturned.

"I didn't mean it. What I said. I don't understand why, maybe, but— It's your choice. I wouldn't begrudge Manuel his art, after all. This is no different."

Lukas looked away again. "Yeah, well."

"I can't stay here." Bastian knew his voice carried a plea; still, Lukas didn't meet his eyes. "When spring comes— You know that."

"I know."

"So why'd you ask?"

Lukas shrugged. "Doesn't matter."

That was a lie. It did matter, and they'd never been good with apologies, maybe, but now words seemed to make no difference at all. What was lost was lost, and Bastian didn't know how to fight for it back. Lukas' eyes were sullen and dark, not in any way like the memories that Bastian had once so loved.

And how strange, Bastian thought as Lukas bandaged the cut with hands that might as well have been a stranger's, for all the affection lacking from his touch. How strange, that love should have a past tense at all.

.

"Long night," Mesut murmured later, curled up beside him. There was barely enough room for one person on the narrow bed, but it fit them just fine: Sami's arm around Mesut's waist, holding him close.

Mesut had closed his eyes. Didn't open them, even when Sami touched his wrist, drew his hand up, Mesut's fingers curled loosely against the callouses on his palm. Sami brushed kisses across knuckles like fine porcelain, if porcelain could be warm and imbued with life. 

"Mario sought me out," Sami said.

Mesut tightened his grip. "What did he want?"

"To help us." Sami smoothed his thumb over Mesut's fingers. "He said he would hire a ship, to set sail as soon as spring comes. The closest port not controlled by our enemies is a fortnight from here. He said he'll take us himself if he must."

"And you trust him?"

"No," said Sami after a moment's pause. "But there's no one else to trust."

"So we're at the mercy of a man who'd turn his back on his own lord."

"I didn't say that."

"You don't need to." Mesut pulled his hand away absently, a frown marring his lips. "They're planning for war. Against Tartessos."

"Did you speak with Joachim?"

"No. But I spoke with Philipp, and I could hear his conversations with Bastian—the one who started the fight. They're going to need ships to take a port city. And they want me to be the ally at the helm of that fleet."

Sami traced the curve of Mesut's shoulder, thought of the rise and fall of the seasons and the distances over land and sea. The only thing that remained unchanged was this. 

"Promises are cheap," said Sami, "during times of war."

Mesut sighed. "I am not the one at war. But I must give them a promise. And any promise I make, I intend to keep."

"You'd fight their war for them?"

"Even if I must do it alone."

Sami pressed his hand to Mesut's shoulderblade, evicting what space remained between them still. Mesut's nose bumped against his cheek. Sami kissed the corner of his mouth.

"Not alone," he promised. 

Mesut splayed his fingers over Sami's heart. "I know."

"But before then."

"The first ship Mario can find," whispered Mesut. It wasn't a question, but his voice invited a response. "Soon as spring comes. We'll go."

Sami pressed a kiss to that dark beloved head.

"Yes," he answered. "Let's."

.

_So the winter passed in peace, and with the first breath of spring, the prince and his loyal bodyguard set sail at last for home._

.


End file.
